


Lengths

by RosieTwiggs



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Abandonment, Abandonment Issues, Aftercare, Angst, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Control Issues, D/s relationship, Depersonalization, Dissociation, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Control, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sensory Deprivation, Sensory Overload, disconnecting from reality, emotional detachment, failure to use safeword
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-16 20:51:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2284098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosieTwiggs/pseuds/RosieTwiggs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If your life revolved around taking care of everyone but yourself? Of not having anyone there to do the same for you? Just constant, incessant responsibility and pressure. What would you need?"<br/>Felicity drops her shoulders, slumping in to herself. She's tired just thinking about it. “I’d need someone I could hand over the reins to. Someone who could take control for a while. Let me rest.”<br/>Sara sighs. “Exactly.”<br/>~*~<br/>When Oliver begins to fall apart, will Felicity be able to go the necessary lengths to keep him together?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is not the average BDSM kink-fic often found in fandom. And while it will contain explicit sexual content, the focus of the fic is not the sex, but rather the deeply emotional connection in a D/s relationship, as well as the, at times necessary, use of BDSM techniques as intense emotional therapy. One of the most important elements of a D/s relationship is trust, and that is what I want to explore here. 
> 
> Additional warning: this fic is a bout BDSM. If you have an issue with that, find it repulsive, or you do not understand it and are not interested in being open minded, do not read this fic. It's unfortunate I even have to warn for this, but I am not here to be your personal teacher and to excuse this lifestyle to you.
> 
> Thank you.

Graphic by the amazingly talented [fe-li-ci-ty](http://fe-li-ci-ty.tumblr.com/).

* * *

 

Felicity fidgets as she glances towards the entrance of the restaurant for what must be the tenth time in two minutes.

Sara had said 12:30, and Felicity doesn't have a lot of time before she needs to be back at the office.

She doesn't know why she is so nervous, so high-strung.

Well, maybe that's a lie.

When it comes to Oliver… When she knows without a doubt that something is very wrong, well – maybe her fidgeting can be forgiven.

“What’s eating you Smoaks?”

Felicity startles and looks up to find Sara Lance shrugging out of her jacket and pulling out her chair to sit down.

“Geez, Sara, you should wear a bell.”

Sara grins, immediately reaching for the bread basket and buttering herself a roll.

“Honestly, I still don’t think you would have heard me.” Sara takes a bite and tilts her head. “Seriously, what’s wrong?”

“Why do you always think something’s wrong? Whenever anyone gets in touch with you, you think the world is ending.”

Sara finishes chewing her bite of bread slowly, before putting the rest of it down and wiping her fingers on her napkin.

“Felicity. You  _called_  me. I was in Mexico and you  _knew_  that and you called and asked me if I wanted to  _get lunch_.”

Yeah. She can see how that would come off as something being wrong.

“Can we get a drink first? I feel like I need alcohol for this.”

Sara raises an eyebrow but flags down a waiter and orders two martinis, extra olives. She busies herself perusing the menu while Felicity tries to figure out what to say.

When her drink comes, she downs half of it in one go, to Sara’s amusement, and when she finally feels the warmth of it bloom in her stomach, takes a breath and says, “I think something’s wrong with Oliver.”

The amusement in Sara’s eyes dies immediately. She frowns. “What do you mean ‘wrong’? Like, sick? Hurt? Injected with some sort of weird behavior modification drug?”

Felicity winces. No, they’d been through that one already. She doesn’t like remembering it.

She sighs. “I… This is going to sound crazy, but  _I don’t know_?”

Sara doesn’t say anything, just waits for her to elaborate.

“He… He’s duller. Not like, boring duller, but sort of like, faded. His eyes feel off, everything feels off. Digg doesn’t see it, but I’ve known Oliver for four years and I’ve never – He’s never -” Felicity makes a frustrated noise. She really just doesn’t know how to explain it.

Sara speaks up, her voice quiet. “Is he sleeping at night?”

Felicity bites her lip and then shakes her head. “No, I don’t think he is.”

“What about eating regularly? Have you seen him actually finish a meal?”

“No.”

“And the…  _other_  stuff?” Sara lowers her voice even more. “Does he still go out every night?”

Felicity laughs, but it sounds on edge, even to her. “That’s the thing. He’s been going out more than ever, but there hasn’t really been anything for him to do. The city’s been quiet. He could be relaxing, taking time off, but instead he just heads out every night, and only comes back in the early morning.”

Sara sits back in her chair, chewing her lip.

“Like I said, Diggle hasn’t noticed anything’s wrong, but I – I  _know_  him, Sara. He almost seems like he’s just – disconnected. From everything.” She takes another drink of her martini and gestures to the waiter to get her another one. “I guess – I guess I called you because you’ve known him longer, because you’re so like him sometimes, and you’ve always seemed to just  _get_  him. And I – I don’t know what to do.”

A waiter comes by to take their orders. Sara orders pasta, but Felicity honestly doesn’t think she can eat anything. She settles for soup.

“You know,” Sara begins, once the waiter has gone, “In the League, for some, it gets to be too much. I ran, but others don’t have the daughter of Ra’s Al Ghul to speak for them. They don’t have any way to get away from what they’ve done sometimes. When you have that much weighing you down, you start to lose pieces of yourself, start to shut the world out to make it to the next day. You start to disconnect. Sometimes, people can be walking and talking, but then you look in their eyes, and you realize, they’re already dead. And you’d never know it, if you weren’t looking for it, if you hadn’t seen it before.”

Felicity doesn’t know what to say. Fear is clawing up her throat, because she recognizes this. This is what she’s been seeing.

Sara takes a deep breath. “It’s called Emotional Detachment, or Depersonalization. It happens to people with severe PTSD. I had a feeling that Oliver might eventually...” Sara shakes her head.

Felicity is silent. Sara reaches for another bread roll.

“Is there any way to fix it?”

Sara shrugs. “Not completely. Medication can work, if you can actually get Ollie to fucking see a shrink, which we both know he won’t do. But I’ve seen other ways.”

“What other ways?”

Sara tilts her head. “I don’t know if you’re going to like it.”

Felicity frowns. “It doesn’t matter whether or not I like it. If it can help him, I need to know about it.”

“Pain.”

Felicity blinks. “Sorry. Are you insulting me or-?”

Sara laughs softly. “No. Physical pain. And bondage. Sensory deprivation. These are things that can be used to coax out, even force an emotional response – they can help a person find their connection to the world again. I’ve seen it.”

It takes Felicity a second to realize what Sara means. “Wait, you mean, like,  _BDSM_?” She lowers her voice to a whisper on the word. “Like –  _sex_?”

“Well, sex doesn’t necessarily always have to be involved, but, yeah.”

Felicity straightens. “No. No way, I can never – I mean… Are you serious?”

Sara sighs. “Look, like I said, I’ve seen it. I’ve seen people in the League who live a very specific lifestyle that helps them deal with things that would kill them otherwise.” She shrugs. “Now, I’m not saying that’s what Ollie needs, but….”

Sara frowns down at her plate.

“Look at it this way,” she says. “Oliver lives a life where he always needs to be in control of everything,  _all_  the time. He runs a multi-billion dollar company, his family holdings, a nightclub. His nights are spent trying to save a city that never gives anything back to him. He lives in a constant state of tension. Even when things are quiet, like they are now, he knows that everything can change at the tip of a hat. He lived for five years without ever getting a good night’s sleep because he couldn’t  _afford_  to let his guard down. And that carried over. Ollie hasn’t relinquished control, hasn’t let anyone take care of him, in  _nine_  years.”

Sara’s eyes blaze, and Felicity remembers that this is her story as well. Sara has been through so much of that as well.

“What would you want, more than anything, if your life revolved around taking care of everyone but yourself? Of not having anyone there to do the same for you? Just constant, incessant responsibility and pressure. What would you  _need_?"

Felicity drops her shoulders, slumping in to herself. She’s tired just thinking about it. “I’d need someone I can hand over the reins to. Someone who can take control for a while. Let me rest.”

Sara sighs. “Exactly.”

“And you really think those things – tying him up, stuff like that… You think that would help?”

Sara sits back in her chair. “Yeah, I actually do. If it’s done  _right_ , with his consent and his  _trust_.”

Felicity falls silent again. Sara seems to sense she needs time to think, so she busies herself with her drink, her phone, anything. The food comes at some point, and Sara digs in to her pasta with a hum of approval. Felicity stirs her minestrone with her spoon, not really registering it at all.

When her pasta is gone, Sara leans back with a satisfied smile. “God, I love carbs,” she says. “And carbs in creamy alfredo sauce are even better.”

Felicity’s soup is cold. She hasn’t touched it.

“Felicity.” Sara’s voice is low, carries authority, and Felicity finally looks up at her.

“You’re smart. It’s one of the things I always liked about you, from the get-go. Don’t just take my word for any of this. I have a hunch that this can be the answer, but you’ve always needed information. Get it. Find all of the information you can on everything you think might be relevant. I gave you a starting point. The rest is up to you.”

The waiter brings their check and before Felicity can argue, Sara leaves several bills on the table, including a large tip.

“Lunch is on me today, okay?”

They both grab their coats and Felicity follows Sara outside.

“We’re not together, you know,” Felicity says as Sara tries to hail a cab.

Her friend doesn’t take her eyes off the road. “Yeah, I know.”

“So how can I do this?”

A bright yellow taxi stops in front of Sara and she opens the door. She looks back before climbing in.

“You love him. And you’re strong. Hell, Felicity Smoak, you’re the toughest of all of us. If anyone can protect Ollie from himself, it would be you. And I don’t think he’d ever trust anyone else to do it. Take some time to figure things out, and then talk to him.” Sara smiles and gets in the cab.

The car pulls away, and Felicity is left feeling lost on the curb. Sometimes she feels like she is holding her team together by threads.

_You’re the toughest of all of us._

She watches the cab turn a corner and squares her shoulders.

Maybe she’ll just have to turn those threads into lengths of rope.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick reminder that this fic is not an average BDSM kink-fic. It will ultimately contain explicit sexual content, however, the focus of the fic is not the sex, but rather the deeply emotional connection in a D/s relationship, as well as the, at times necessary, use of BDSM techniques as intense emotional therapy.

Graphic by [fe-li-ci-ty](http://fe-li-ci-ty.tumblr.com/).

* * *

 

She starts off small. Just a general search of BDSM on google.

A Wikipedia article, an Urban Dictionary definition, and then a lot of “kinky” magazine articles and literotica reviews. Not very helpful.

Despite Felicity’s aversion to Wikipedia, she starts there.

Four hours later, she’s falling asleep in front of her computer and Oliver, Diggle and Roy are due to get back from patrol any minute. She’s managed to compile a very long list of books to read. She jumped from reading up on BDSM in general to filtering out the SM element and focusing mainly on Bondage and D/s relationships.

It’s… really interesting.

Dominant/submissive relationships focus mainly on the power balance between two people, where one willingly gives over power and control to another. And like Sara told her, while it is usually sexual, it doesn’t have to be.

What’s important, however, is that the Dominant partner is responsible for the physical and emotional well-being of the submissive. Based on what Felicity reads, it isn’t about the sub pleasing the Dom at all, though that is generally a happy side-effect – it’s about care more than anything else.

Felicity downloads digital copies of her book list. She’s just finished scrubbing the internet of her evening searches when the door clangs open and the guys trek down.

She can tell, they’re all tired, but Oliver barely glances at her as he pulls off his hood and mask, dropping it on the med table. He unzips his jacket and lets it slide from his shoulders, hanging it haphazardly on the mannequin. Then he just stands there for a moment, as though he’s forgotten what else he’d wanted to do.

Diggle and Roy don’t notice, they’re too busy putting away their own gear, and they’re tired too, but Felicity steps up next to Oliver and touches his arm lightly.

“Hey, you okay?” she asks, her voice soft.

Oliver doesn’t answer her, so she squeezes slightly, makes her voice more firm “Oliver.”

“Hm?” He turns to face her, as though only just realizing she’s there. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, just tired.”

He looks it, but Felicity knows he hasn’t been sleeping, and probably won’t get much sleep tonight either. His eyes look dull, empty. Looking into them makes her gut twist.

“Okay,” she says. There’s nothing she can do. Not right now. She trusts Sara enough that she’d been willing to look into her whole approach, but now she’s interested. Everything Felicity has learned tonight has told her that she’s just hit the tip of the iceberg, but she’s definitely on the right track.

The best thing she can do right now, is go home, rest, and really get started in the morning.

She leaves Oliver staring into the glass case of his arrows.

~*~

Over the course of the next few days, Felicity devours every bit of information she can get her hands on. She’s always felt a need to arm herself with knowledge. In a world where she’s physically weak, being smarter than everyone else is how she’s always defended herself.

Halfway through reading “Sadomasochism in Everyday Life: The Dynamics of Power and Powerlessness”, Felicity has an epiphany.

The book is interesting, if a little bit dated, but she’s reading up on control, and how people exert it, attempt to achieve it, when she realizes she’s reading about herself.

She can’t help it. In the middle of her sunny living room, on a Monday morning, with a book on BDSM open on her lap, she starts laughing. She’s got a stack of five books on her coffee table, three more ebooks on her reader, and she called in sick that morning because there was a mystery she felt needed to be solved. She needs control. She’d never thought about it that way, but it’s true. She needs to be in control of her life and this, what she’s been doing, is a prime example of it.

She’s given Sara’s words a lot of thought, since their lunch together. The idea that Oliver might need to find a safe environment to relinquish control made a lot of sense to her, even before beginning her research. Felicity’s main concern had been whether or not she could even be the one to give that to him. Whether she was strong enough to take it.

If someone had asked her two weeks ago who she thought the Dominant person in their relationship was, and who was submissive – well, honestly, she’d probably have been completely blindsided  and affronted by the question… Felicity’s not really sure how this scenario ever would have actually happened, to be honest, but assuming some weird freak occurrence brought it up… She would have said Oliver was Dominant and she was submissive.

But two weeks ago, the only thing she’d known about BDSM was that it involved spanking and she was not into that.

And now…

Felicity bites her lip and glances down at the page again.

She’s the Dominant one. Or at least, she definitely could be. The admission rings true in her head, settles in her bones.

She finishes the book a few hours later and moves on to “The Mistress Manual: The Good Girl's Guide to Female Dominance”.

She enjoys it a lot.

~*~

Oliver gets hurt two nights later.

It’s not life or death, but it isn’t just a scratch either.

Felicity watches, wincing, as Diggle stitches up a nasty gash in Oliver’s side, from where a bank-robber had gotten in a hit with a knife.

Two inches to the side and Oliver would have probably lost a kidney. And the guy had gotten away.

Felicity doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask Oliver what happened. She waits until he’s cleaned up and watches him walk gingerly to the bathroom to shower.

Diggle’s cleaning up, disposing of his gloves and the suture kit, when Felicity finally says something.

“What happened?”

She knows what happened. She was on comms. What she doesn’t know is why.

Diggle glances up, then moves to the sink, turning the water on to wash his hands.

“Guy got a hit in, Felicity. Nothing that hasn’t happened before.”

She wonders how it’s possible for Diggle not to feel the waves of frustration and fear coming off of her.

“So you don’t think he was distracted? Off his game?”

Diggle frowns. “Distracted by what? He doesn’t have anything to be distracted about. For the first time in months, there’s no big bad hanging over our heads. It’s just routine patrols. Easy stuff, Felicity.”

Diggle shrugs. “Honestly, I haven’t seen him this focused since he first started his whole crusade.”

Felicity wants to scream. She wants to grab Diggle and shake him and ask him how he thinks Oliver being similar in any way to the person he was when he first started crossing names off of a list could possibly be a good thing. When she first met Oliver, he’d already begun to soften around the edges, but that distance, that disconnect from his humanity, had still existed. She got to see him come back from it, a little bit at a time. But from what John had told her, Oliver had been more machine than man at the beginning.

And he was slipping back into that.

“I’m worried about him, John.”

Diggle pauses. Felicity rarely calls him by his first name. She knows it, and he knows it.

“Felicity,” her friend finally says with a sigh, “It was just an accident. Oliver was lucky, really lucky, but it was a fluke.”

Diggle shakes his head. “Look,” he says. “You know Oliver better than I do at this point. Better than anyone does, I’d wager.” And they aren’t usually this candid about it, but maybe John can see that something is not sitting well with her. “If you think something’s off, I’ll listen. But I really think he’s just tired.”

Felicity considers Diggle’s words. He’ll listen to her, if she wants to speak. But what would she even say?

I think Oliver has begun to disconnect from reality in a way that makes him dangerous to himself and others, and if we don’t do something soon, we’re going to lose him. Oh, also, the thing I think will help him involves ropes and safe words and probably at least partial nudity. Thoughts?

No. Whatever else has happened between the three of them in the past. Whatever they’ve been through together as friends, she’s on her own this time.

She takes a deep breath and smiles. “You know what? You’re probably right. I just - I get worried, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” Diggle reaches for Felicity and pulls her into a quick hug, placing a chaste kiss on the top of her head.

“I gotta head out. Lyla’s waiting up for me.”

Felicity nods and watches him go.

Five minutes later, Oliver emerges from the shower, eyes dull and tired, favoring his right side. He hasn’t bothered with a shirt – Felicity can’t even imagine he’d be able to pull one up over his head right now.

She makes a snap decision and gets the oxycodone solution out of the medicine drawer. She fills a syringe with 5mgs while Oliver looks on without saying a word.

“Sit,” she says, voice soft, nodding her head towards the bed.

“Felicity…” Oliver sounds like he wants argue but just can’t find the strength to.

Felicity sighs. “Oliver. When’s the last time you slept?”

He shrugs. “Last night?”

“Okay. How long did you sleep for?”

Oliver looks away. “I don’t know. A couple of hours.”

Felicity doubts it, but she doesn’t argue. “Okay,” she says. “How about you get some sleep now, though?”

“I was actually going to see if I could shoot some-“

“Oliver.”

She can see his throat work as he swallows, and she makes another decision.

“I’ve got a bunch of things I need to do here – system updates, a couple of decryptions… I’ll wake you up before I leave.”

Oliver frowns. She can see he’s thinking about it. He finally nods. “Okay. If you don’t mind me leaving you to work while I rest…”

Felicity smiles. “Like I said, I’m sticking around anyway. Sit.”

Oliver gingerly lowers himself onto the bed, and Felicity barely manages to keep herself from sighing in relief.

“The oxycodone will help you sleep better.” She reaches for his arm, and he gives it to her willingly.

“You know I’ve dealt with worse pain than this before, right?”

Felicity doesn’t look at his face, focuses instead on administering the medicine.

“Doesn’t mean you have to deal with it now.”

He lies down, and Felicity goes back to her computers, puttering around, making herself look busy, when in truth, there’s nothing she really needs to be doing.

When soft snores begin coming from the other end of the room, Felicity lets her shoulders sag, turning her chair to look over at Oliver. She’s not quite ready yet to approach him about her research, but at least for now, she can give him this.

Sara was right. Oliver needs to let go. And he needs someone he can trust to watch over him while he does.

Books have taken her as far as they can. She knows what she wants to do, but now she needs the practical knowledge to pull it off.

~*~

Felicity’s in luck. A studio downtown called Erotique runs rope bondage workshops every couple of weeks. And they have a beginners’ class starting in a couple of days.

She’s seen the studio’s name pop up a lot in her research. She was looking for a place that might be able to give her a more hands-on approach, and everything about Erotique looked above board. It’s run by a married couple, who have been together for almost fifteen years. The husband is a photographer, and the studio doubles as his gallery. The photographs just all happen to be ones of him in various stages of bondage and suspension.

His wife is his Domme, who also runs a nationally acclaimed BDSM club located in Starling.

All in all, Felicity’s fairly certain she couldn’t have found a better place to get some basic training.

It’s a terrifying step to go from just reading about it, to actually putting herself out there and signing up for a class.

It’s also an admission that she’s serious about this, and brings her one step closer to actually talking to Oliver about it.

Erotique is not exactly what she expected. Though, to be fair, Felicity has already learned enough to know that the world of BDSM is not the dark and secretive world she thought a couple of weeks ago.

Beautiful photographs in black and white hang from the walls in a spacious and well lit gallery. The subject in most of them is naked, wrapped tightly in ropes that crisscross along his limbs, back, chest. When you can see his face, he looks – far away, calm, relaxed. Felicity can’t help but superimpose Oliver in those pictures in her mind, and while the mental image leaves her dry-mouthed, and slightly flushed, it also gives her a tremendous sense of longing.

She’s never seen him look like that. She’s never seen him completely at peace.

Felicity experiences a moment of panic before she steps foot into the room that the receptionist had pointed her towards at the back of the studio. But she pushes it down and squares her shoulders.

She can do this.

Sunlight floods the room, coming in from large windows. It’s spacious, and there are mats spread out, people sitting down comfortably, chatting and waiting to begin. Felicity catches sight ropes hanging from the back corner and looks up to find suspension rigs hanging from the ceiling. She knows suspension is very advanced, but she can’t help swallowing down more nerves.

“Hi there,” a kind voice greets her. Felicity turns and comes face to face with a small woman, only slightly taller than she is. She has auburn hair pulled back in a high ponytail, and is wearing comfortable looking, loose-fitting clothes. She’s bare-foot, and her toenails are painted a dark red.

“Hi,” Felicity responds, breathing out in a huff. “Are you Sage?”

“That’s me,” Sage responds with a smile. This is the woman who runs the workshop. This tiny woman is a Domme.

She holds out her hand, and Sage takes it, shaking it firmly. “I’m Felicity…?”

Sage recognizes her name. “Ah, yes! You’re our only single.”

“Wait, what?” The nerves come back in full force. “I’m the only one not here with a partner? Is that okay? Is it weird? Because when I spoke to the lady on the phone, she didn’t mention anything about that, and really, I mean, it’s okay, I would understand if it’s a couples only sort of thing, because, well, yeah, but I just-“

Sage begins to laugh. “Hey, it’s fine, it’s all good, no worries!” she says, shaking her head. “We get lots of singles, just not any others this time around. Advanced classes are usually pairs only, but the starter workshops are open to everybody.”

“Oh,” Felicity sighs. “Okay.”

Sage tilts her head. “You seem a little nervous. Anything you want to share?”

Felicity considers this for a moment, but then shakes her head. She’s not sure how much of herself she wants to put out there yet, and she’s only just met the woman.

“Okay. We’ll be starting in about two minutes. Why don’t you find a seat?”

Felicity moves to the side, sitting on a mat in the second row. She does feel a little bit out of place – everyone else is there with a partner, after all. But looking around the room, she can tell a lot of the people must be new to this as well. They all look a little nervous, though they have someone to share their nerves with.

“Alright, let’s get this show on the road, huh?” Sage steps up to the front of the room, and although she doesn’t raise her voice, everyone immediately falls silent.

“Welcome to Studio Erotique. I’m Sage, I’ll be your instructor. This is Ryan, my husband, and he’ll be our model for the lesson.”

A sandy haired man man stands up from the mat right next to Sage’s feet, and Felicity immediately recognizes the man from the photos.  She can feel herself flush as she can’t help but think back to a few of the more risqué pictures, but Ryan doesn’t seem to be the slightest bit self-conscious. Felicity reminds herself that he does this for a living after all. Ryan gives them all a little wave. He’s wearing a tight fitting black t-shirt, and tight black jeans, and Felicity remembers reading that those who planned on being tied should wear tight clothes, to make it easier.

Sage launches into a short speech about the history of Shibari and rope bondage, and its artistic, as well as sexual and psychological values. Felicity has read it all at this point, but it’s definitely interesting to hear from someone who practices on a regular basis.

Then Sage begins talking about why someone would want to tie or be tied, and Felicity catches herself nodding along. A lot of what she’s saying reminds Felicity of her own situation. Sage and Ryan found each other after they had each been introduced to BDSM and had been practicing for a few years, but Sage talks about Ryan’s need to  be relieved of control, and her own need to care for others. How a lifestyle they were committed to 24-7 also became a lucrative business, so they were both able to do what they truly loved, and stay emotionally healthy.

“Some people just want to dabble in bondage from time to time, and that’s okay,” she says, “That’s great, actually. Shibari and rope bondage can add so much to a relationship, in any capacity. For some of us, however, this is a necessity in our sex lives, and relationships.”

Felicity wants to raise her hand, ask about people who need it, but don’t have a sexual relationship with someone who could participate with them. But she bites the inside of her cheek instead, taking a length of hemp rope when Ryan offers it to her with a smile. He also brings her a stand with two thick wooden columns, lying sideways. Considering she didn’t bring a partner with her, she figures this is her practice dummy.

“If you want to have the ties tried out on you,” he says, “Just let us know. Sage will be happy to help you out.”

She smiles and nods in response, then listens closely while Sage shows them how to tie a single column tie, working through every detail, even down to how to hold what part of the rope and in which hand.

They work on a few variations and then they move on to double column ties. Sage makes sure to stress how important it is to leave enough room for circulation. The trick is finding the balance between very snug and too tight.

“When you play,” she tells them, “you need to be sure your sub is in a good place, mentally and physically. While we use safe words to keep track of mental health, sometimes, when a sub is deep in sub-space, they won’t necessarily notice if their circulation is being overly restricted, or even completely cut off. Check their limbs regularly, especially hands and feet, to keep track of temperature and color.”

Felicity’s just finishing off the last knot on the third variation they’ve worked on of the double column when Sage speaks, and she stops, struck by the words.

Play. Safe words. Sub-space. 

She’s read the terms, knows what they all mean, but suddenly, in the middle of a public class, in a well-lit room, the whole thing becomes terrifyingly real.

Play. As though this is a game. She’s learning to do this insane thing because she thinks it might be what Oliver needs, because she’s not sure how else she can reach him anymore, and the thought of doing this with him… The two wooden columns are suddenly wrists, and her hands are shaking, and everything comes crashing down around her.

Her breath hitches, and she can feel the panic rising up in her throat and it occurs to her that she’s about to have a breakdown with 14 people watching.

“Felicity.” A woman’s voice cuts through her anxiety induced haze, and she looks up from her hands to find Sage kneeling in front of her.

“Hey. Can you take a couple of deep breaths for me, please?”

Sage’s voice is low and steady, and her hands are on Felicity’s double column, as though she’s checking it. Felicity looks around the room, heart still beating wildly, to find that no one is staring at them, they’re all working on their own knots. Everyone just assumes Sage is helping her with something.

She looks back, hands still trembling, and takes a deep breath in through her nose.

“Slowly. That’s good. Now let it out, slowly.”

Felicity listens, exhaling softly, focusing on the deep brown eyes watching her with concern.

“Again,” she says, nodding. “And again. Good.”

Sage’s voice is soothing, steady, and Felicity continues to listen to her, until little by little, she feels herself settle. Her mouth is dry and her hands are cold, but other than that, she’s in control again.

Sage pulls on the cuffs created by the double column tie, and nods her head. “This is great, Felicity. Perfect. Why don’t you go grab a cup of tea from the receptionist while I finish up here?”

Felicity would be embarrassed if she wasn’t so tremendously relieved. She gets up on shaky legs.

“Thank you,” she says softly, and walks out.

She can hear the murmurs of discussion once the class is over, and then watches the other participants leave while she sits at a tall table in the corner of the gallery, nursing a cup of tea with her feet propped up on the high bar of her stool.

Sage joins her at the table a moment later with her own cup.

“So,” she says, after a moment of silence, “that was an interesting reaction to tying a knot.”

Felicity stares into her cup and sighs. “I’m so sorry,” she says.

“Hey, no apologies here, not unless you break one of the rules. Do you think I’ve never had someone in a workshop freak out on me before?”

Felicity frowns. “Really?”

Sage tilts her head, the corner of her mouth curved up in a wry smile. “There are reasons people practice bondage. It hits something deeply personal, in a dark place in their psyche. It’s cathartic, but on those grounds it’s also very emotionally charged. I always keep an eye out, just to make sure everyone stays at green in my classes.”

Felicity laughs. “At green, huh?” She’s familiar with the most commonly used safe word.

Sage smiles. “Yes. I’m a Domme, Felicity. This is what I do. And whether or not I’m providing care to my sub or my students, I have someone’s emotional well-being under my responsibility. And I’ve been doing it for long enough to be able to tell when someone starts to slide into dangerous territory.”

Felicity takes another sip of her tea. It’s begun to cool down at this point.

“So, would you like to tell me what it was that triggered that response?”

Felicity puts her cup down and lays her hands in her lap, fingers twisting together.

She bites her lip, wondering how to begin.

“I only started learning about all of this stuff a couple of weeks ago,” she says. “I… I have a friend. He – well, he’s changed lately. Shut-down. I can see it so clearly, and it just keeps getting worse. And he’s been through a lot. So much, that I’m sort of surprised he hasn’t just lost himself before now. And someone suggested - well, I thought that this might be something that could help.”

Sage doesn’t say anything,  or cut in, just continues to listen.

“And it’s crazy, right? I mean, who’s to say this is the way to go? Only, the more I learn, the more it seems to fit, and not only for him, but for me too. And I just want to help him. He’s disappearing right in front of me, and I can’t-“

Felicity feels the sting of tears, and blinks them away. She’s determined not to cry. She won’t cry.

“Anyway,” she sniffs and shakes her head, “It all suddenly became very real. When I was just reading about all of this, there was still some distance. But with the rope in my hands, I had this moment of – What am I doing? This is crazy. Who thinks their friend is suffering from dissociation and decides - Hey! Maybe I should tie him up? But that’s the thing – I want to. I want to do this for him, but I don’t know how to broach it, or talk to him about it, and I want to do it for me too. Only we’ve never even had sex, we’re not in that sort of relationship. Not that I don’t want to be, because I really, really do, but - This is not a situation I ever thought I would end up facing in my life, and I am not equipped for this. God, how do I do this?”

She drops her face in her hands, shaking her head, and then lets them fall heavily back in her lap. She looks up at Sage. The older woman is watching her thoughtfully, and Felicity hadn’t realized how much those words had been weighing down on her. How much she had needed to tell someone about what she’d been going through.

“I don’t have the answers you’re looking for,” Sage finally says, and Felicity’s shoulders sag. “I can’t tell you how to do this, or what to say, or even whether or not you’re doing the right thing. But I can tell you what a friend told me once, when I was just starting out.

“A good Dominant is someone who knows that reading about BDSM is not the same thing as doing it. It is someone who can access their own emotions, as well as their sub’s, and articulate them. A good Dominant recognizes that there is no one right way to do things, and every relationship has its own dynamic. What works for one couple, may not be the right thing for another. You’re always going to have to find your own path. And at the end of the day, a really good Dominant doesn’t need to know how to use every toy in the toy box, as long as they’re motivated to learn.”

Sage takes a sip from her mug. She puts it down and spreads her hands on the table in front of her.

“Felicity, you sound like you’re really trying to work something out here. And whether or not this is the way to do it, your friend is lucky to have someone who is willing to put in the time and effort to think outside of the box and push at their own limits. I don’t know anything about this guy, so I can’t help you there, but you clearly do. You really seem to have a deep understanding of where he’s at, emotionally. And you’re putting in the time and effort to make sure you do things right. Trust yourself. If you feel like this is right for you, trust that feeling. That’s what’s going to get you through this and help you find the strength to face it head on.

“You know, I’m sure you’ve heard by now how much this sort of lifestyle hinges on trust. But what a lot of people don’t realize, is that that trust has to start with you having faith in yourself. That conviction is what gives you the confidence to build something meaningful.”

Felicity doesn’t really know what to say to that. She was hoping Sage would be able to tell her what to do, or that she was even doing the right thing to begin with.

But the words feel comforting anyway. They aren’t answers, but they ring true for her nonetheless.

Sage slides a card with her number on it across the table.

“Listen. I think you should come to the follow up workshop. Whether or not you end up doing this with your friend is your call, but you seemed to enjoy it. I think it could be good for you. And even if you don’t, and you just feel like you need to talk, I am always willing to listen.”

Felicity nods and Sage gets up to leave.

“Thank you,” she says softly, and Sage smiles.

“Anytime.”

~*~

She waits for an easy night – a night where patrolling brings the team up empty handed, and they all head back to the foundry early, before heading home. Oliver is pacing in the back of the lair, and Felicity recognizes the restlessness in him – his inability to shut down. He’ll bring out the tennis balls soon, and then the practice dummies, and he’ll just keep striking out at something until he’s worked himself into a stupor. And then, maybe if she sticks around, he’ll fall asleep for an hour.

She can’t watch him do this to himself anymore.

“Oliver?” she says, voice a little shaky. She clears her throat and forces herself to sound confident, firm. “Oliver.”

He is just reaching for his bow, but he turns to her instead.

“Hm?”

God, she’s so nervous she feels sick. She’s never been this nervous in her life, and she had Slade Wilson holding a sword to her throat once upon a time.

“Can we talk?”

Oliver frowns, but comes closer, leaning on the med table. “Sure. What about?”

God, she’s doing this, but she has no idea how to get started. She tosses out the first thing she can think of.

“I’m worried about you.”

The frown deepens. “Why?”

Felicity fights back her urge to fidget, to bite her lip, to make it look like she’s unsure of herself at all. “You haven’t been yourself, and I think something might be really wrong.”

“Felicity…” Oliver sighs and shakes his head. He doesn’t want to hear this. He needs to hear this.

“You’re not eating. You’re not sleeping. Starling’s never been quieter, but you’re on constant high alert. When you aren’t working yourself into a stupor so you can finally pass out for an hour or two, I catch you just staring off at nothing. I’ve timed it, Oliver. Last time was a full thirteen minutes before I finally decided to snap you out of it, and then you looked at me like you didn’t recognize me for a second – it was-”

Felicity swallows and shakes her head.

“It wasn’t a good feeling. And I’ve caught you looking at your reflection the same way.”

Oliver turns away from her, hands on the med table.

“You’re distracted on patrols. You’re getting hurt.” She gestures vaguely at him, even though he’s not looking. Standing up, she walks around until she’s on the opposite side of the table, the click of her heels sounding louder than usual in the wide space of the foundry.

She watches as Oliver clenches his fists. “I live a dangerous life Felicity. Sometimes I get hurt. That doesn’t mean something is wrong.”

“Oliver.” Felicity’s voice is soft, pleading, and he finally looks up at her. His eyes are dull, tired.

“Last week you drove me home, and when we got there, you couldn’t remember making the trip.”

Oliver opens his mouth to argue, but snaps it shut, swallowing visibly. She knows he remembers. He had just walked her up to her front door when he’d paused, looking around himself in confusion and asked her how they’d gotten there. Her heart had almost stopped.

“I talked to Sara,” she finally says.

It’s a low blow. She knows he listens when Sara speaks. Felicity could be offended, but she had realized long ago that it wasn’t a matter of Oliver trusting Sara’s opinion over hers. Rather, it’s Oliver knowing that Sara’s emotional and psychological make-up is so similar to his own. Sara has been through the same things he’s been through, so her words hold a certain weight. And right now, Felicity needs that weight to get through to him.

“Sara’s out of the country. She’s unavailable.”

“She made time for me.”

Oliver ducks his chin down, but she knows he’s listening.

“She’s worried too. She thinks – well, she’s seen this sort of thing before. She said it made sense…”

Oliver takes a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling. “None of this makes any sense,” he mumbles, and Felicity feels a short thrill because it’s the closest he’s come to acknowledging that something might be off in months.

“She thinks it’s connected to post traumatic stress. That considering this is the first time the city’s been so quiet – this is the first stretch of time where you haven’t been living on edge and in danger, that you’re having trouble parsing it.”

Felicity takes a deep breath. “She, uh, she also had a suggestion for something that might help.”

Oliver’s eyes cut to hers and he looks at her expectantly.

Oh God, her mouth is so dry. She wonders if Oliver can see how quickly her pulse is beating in her neck. But no, his reflexes have been so dulled lately, she doubts he can.

“She said that people suffering in the League from the same thing use physical pain or bondage to ground themselves – tether themselves back to reality.”

She can tell the moment Oliver realizes what she’s talking about. His eyes widen and he takes a step back from the med table.

“You’re joking, right?” he says.

She wants to say that she wishes she was joking, but she doesn’t want to make him think that she sees this development as negative, as distasteful. She’s walking on eggshells, and is terrified to make a misstep.

“I’m not joking,” she says, voice clear and refusing to look away.

He frowns. “You mean – you really think – you actually took her seriously?”

“Considering how seriously she meant it – yes.”

Felicity steps up to the table and puts her hands down on it gently. “Listen,” she says, “obviously, you don’t have to take my word for anything, but you know me, Oliver. I talked to Sara three weeks ago. And since then I have done everything I could to figure out whether or not this might be something that could help you. And – and it fits. If you would be willing to give it a try, it might actually work. The whole concept is based on the idea that you’re having trouble letting go, of winding down and giving up control – and finding someone who you could trust to take the reins - just for a little while - could change everything.”

Oliver looks completely lost. “So - so what? You think I should just pick up and find some sort of kink club and get someone in a catsuit to tie me up for an hour, and you think that’ll make all of this go away?”

Felicity winces. “No. That’s not what I said. This is not about being kinky. This isn’t about just letting out some pent up tension at some random club. It’s about being able to let go and not have to have to whole world weighing on your shoulders for five goddamn minutes, Oliver!”

Felicity bites down on the inside of her cheek. She’s breathing heavily, and the truth is, she’s been one sideways glance away from falling apart since she started this conversation, but she’s not backing down now.

“I just -” She shakes her head. “I just want to help you, Oliver.” Her voice lowers to barely more than a whisper. “Please,” she pleads, “let me help you.”

She’s not sure she can go any further tonight than she already has. She’s not sure she has it in her to hash this out completely, so she walks to her desk and grabs her coat and purse.

Oliver hasn’t moved from his spot, and she lets her eyes roam over his broad back. He’s holding himself slightly hunched, smaller somehow than he usually looks, and for a second, she can practically see rope crisscrossing across his shoulder blades. She bites her lip, shaking her head and pushing the image out of her mind.

“Think about it,” she tells him, and turns to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank all of you for being so patient. I have to say, Lengths is becoming so incredibly important to me, and it's absolutely cathartic writing it.  
> After the premiere, I was having trouble wanting to write anything, and it took me a while to find my way back to a place where I felt good about fandom. Picking up chapter two and really dedicating myself to it, showed me I could still do this. And then there is the fact that this story is really personal and it is so crucial to me that I give it its due.  
> So thank you.  
> Also, I need to add a tremendous thank you to ash818 and Abbie for their amazing help getting this out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter depicts a BDSM scene of dubious consent, and themes that resemble sexual assault and resulting trauma. Please pay close attention to the tags.
> 
> Please remember that this fic is not an average BDSM kink-fic. The focus of the fic is not on sex, but rather the deeply emotional connection in a D/s relationship, as well as the, at times necessary, use of BDSM techniques as intense emotional therapy.

Graphic by [fe-li-ci-ty](http://fe-li-ci-ty.tumblr.com/).

* * *

 

A small knot sits in the pit of Oliver’s stomach.

He stares at the far wall of the foundry, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. He needs to feel the tension of a bow string between his fingers, needs the tightness of it pulled back against his cheek, the vacuum slice of displaced air as he lets go and the stinging whip of the Kevlar thread against the inside of his arm.

For a moment he can see himself, watching from the side - aiming, drawing, releasing. He can see the look of concentration on his own face, the muscles tensing in his arms, back, shoulders.

Then he blinks and he’s staring at the far wall again. His bow is tucked away where it belongs, at rest in the glass case along with his arrows, and he digs the nail of his thumb into the skin of his forefinger, hard, dragging it along the skin.

It doesn’t feel anything like holding a bow string.

Felicity left a while ago. Minutes? Hours? He can’t be sure.

He’s vaguely aware that he should be sleeping, that he hasn’t moved in longer than could be strictly categorized as normal, that he’s cold, but he’s been staring at the far wall of the foundry since the door clanged shut upstairs, shifting in and out of himself, that small knot sinking deeper every time he blinks, and he can’t quite bring himself to turn away.

There’s a spot on the wall. A bullet ricocheted off of it a few years back, when people infiltrating their base was still a thing that happened. It left a mark that Oliver could hit blindfolded. He knows where it is, could aim, draw, release, all within the span of a breath. He breathes in then, smelling the oil he uses to clean his bow, feeling the fletching of his arrows between his fingers.

He could just let go, watch the arrow sink deep into the concrete.

He blinks instead, taking a deeper breath than he has in a while, if the tightness in his chest is anything to go by, and when he finally looks down at his right hand, the skin of his fingertip is an angry red, half-moon indentations in various shades of purple scattered along the pad.

Oliver swallows, the knot in his stomach tightening as he turns away from the far wall. He’d barely patrolled that night, but honestly, he feels like he’d run a marathon.

The clock on his phone lets him know that Felicity’s been gone for three hours.

God, he’s tired. He just needs some sleep. A part of him wishes she had stayed. Having her working in the background is soothing; the sound of computer keys clacking and distracted humming has become comforting white noise after years of working together.

He still doesn’t want to think about what she’d said before she left.

He’s fine.

He just needs some sleep.

He turns towards the cot but freezes a moment later when he sees someone else there, out of the corner of his eye. Immediately, every muscle tenses, waiting for an attack. His heart rate speeds up, he slows his breathing, the hairs on the nape of his neck stand on end.

He needs a weapon – wonders whether he can reach one before he has to fight –

And then pauses long enough to wonder why he hasn’t been attacked yet.

Slowly, he turns to find himself staring at his own reflection in a mirror.

He’s fine.

“ _Fuck_.”

~*~

Oliver stands at the corner of Nuxalk and Merle, leaning back against the dirty cement of a tenement, hat pulled low over his eyes.

He’s been watching the Jade Dragon for the last three hours. The restaurant front is closed and locked up tight considering it’s only ten am, but there have been two trucks and another three deliveries on foot.

All seemed above board, but Oliver can’t shake the niggling feeling that something’s coming. It’s been creeping up under his skin for weeks.

He watches one of the waiters come out front and unlock the security grille, pulling it up with a loud clang. The unease increases, this might be it, but the waiter just unlocks the front door and heads inside.

Oliver shifts his weight. He should probably do another circuit around the block, but he just knows, the second he loses focus, something will come up - he’ll miss something important.

Starling has been quiet for too long - the Triad has to be up to something.

And if not the Triad, then maybe the Bratva. Alexi is dead, but there’s always another two heads to the hydra. He’s already heard about a new captain - Pavel Serganov. He’s set up shop in the old garage, and it’s like nothing’s changed at all. Same underlings, same distrust, same scum. Same Solntsevskaya Bratva. And Serganov might be looking to make a name for himself - is probably planning something big.

Maybe he’s watching the wrong mob.

The longer he thinks about it, the more likely it seems. Nothing has happened in the several hours he’s been watching the Jade Dragon. And it’s the same nothing that happened the day before, and the one before that. The Triad isn’t planning anything.

_Yet_ , Oliver can’t help but think, glancing across the street as he pushes off from the wall. His muscles twinge, all of his usual aches and pains aggravated by standing still for so long.

He checks his watch. Nine hours to sundown. Which means he’s got about eight hours until Felicity and Diggle head over to the foundry.

He’ll scout out a few good vantage points, set up a schedule. He knows a lot of the old crowd working at the body shop, so he’ll have to take extra care not to be recognized.

It might take days or even weeks, but he’ll find out what Serganov is planning. He’s patient. He can wait.

~*~

He’s just finishing setting up the last searches on Serganov and a few of his men when Diggle comes down the stairs.

“Is Felicity with you?” he asks, glancing up from the computer screen for a moment. He could use her help triangulating the data from their cells and locking into their GPS.

“No, she didn’t call you?”

Oliver frowns, and Diggle now has his full attention. “No. Why?”

Digg shrugs out of his jacket. “She called to tell me she wouldn’t be in tonight. Had to take a day for something.”

His stomach immediately clenches and he feels his chest constrict, and he knows that whatever reason Felicity gave Diggle for not coming in tonight was just a cover.

She wanted to help him and he just stood there until she left. And he hasn’t given it another thought since.

Is it any wonder though? At what point does someone stop trying, when the person they want to help is as fucked up as he is?

Is it any wonder that she doesn’t want to deal with that?

The blaring sound of a horn cuts through to his gut, jarring him into awareness, and he’s immediately assaulted by bright headlights and the enormous grille of the front of a fourteen wheeler.

Instinct is what saves him. He immediately cuts to the right. His brain hasn’t even managed to process where he is or how he got there, but every muscle tightens and then releases into his swerve. He’s fast, but he’s not fast enough.

The truck clips the back wheel of his Ducati, and his breath catches as the bike is whipped back towards the left. There’s a moment of sickening weightlessness as both wheels lift off the ground, and then his teeth clack together, narrowly missing his tongue, when the bike hits the ground again on an angle, falling over the rest of the way before skidding and spinning several yards, sparks flying, his leg trapped between the weight of the bike and the asphalt.

When he finally drags to a halt, the silence is louder than the scrape of metal on pavement. His blood is rushing in his ears, and his heart is pounding so hard, he can feel it in his throat. His awareness shrinks down to the immediacy of his own body. The shift of leather against his chest and hands. Soft felt cloth rubbing against his ears. The ring of black around his vision, from the microfiber fabric of his mask. He normally doesn’t notice it, but he can feel the pressure on his cheeks.

The sting in his leg creeps into his perception and he breathes deeply three, four times, before attempting to shift the bike off of him.

The damage doesn’t look too severe. His leathers kept his leg _mostly_ intact. The road rash is… moderate. He’s still going to need Digg to patch him up.

And it’s almost like thinking of Diggle finally makes him aware of the frantic voice coming over his comm link.

_“-the hell, man? Are you there? Can you hear me? Oliver? Oliver!”_

“I’m here. _John_ , I’m here,” he groans.

_“Oliver,”_ the relief in Digg’s voice is palpable. _“Thank God. What happened?”_

Oliver opens his mouth to answer and then realizes -

\- he has no idea.

He looks around, swallowing. He was in the foundry. He was _there_. He doesn’t remember getting dressed or heading out, or _where he was going_.

The tremors start in his jaw, teeth chattering, and quickly sweep down the rest of his body until he’s visibly shaking. The adrenaline rush leaves him as swiftly as it came, and he begins to see black spots in the edges of his vision.

“The fuck?! Are you okay?”

A new voice puts him on alert again, and his chest feels like it’s going to burst from the back and forth of _safe - not safe - danger danger danger…_

He’s up and has an arrow drawn before he realizes the man speaking is the truck driver.

“Holy shit,” he says, stopping a few feet away and bringing his hands up in front of him, a placating gesture. “Holy _shit_ , you’re the Arrow. I fucking hit _the Arrow_ with my truck?”

Slowly, very slowly, Oliver lowers his bow.

“Are - are you okay, man? Do you need help?”

Oliver lowers his head, making sure the hood shades his face. He puts the arrow back in his quiver and gingerly leans down to pick up his bike. It’s banged up but it’ll still work. Like him.

“No,” he says, voice gruff. “Sorry for - “ he gestures vaguely.

Then he climbs back on the bike and leaves the man behind.

It takes him three minutes before he finally figures out where he is and can head back towards the foundry.

Digg is quiet while patching Oliver up, focusing on the torn skin of his leg. It doesn’t really need stitches, but it’ll take a while to heal. The gashes are shallow but wide. Diggle works methodically. His soldier’s medic training shows in his swift, calculating movements as he applies ointment and bandages.

Oliver lowers himself gingerly from the med table when he’s done, frowning down at the tattered leg of his pants. He’s going to have to get a new pair - these are beyond fixing.

“Oliver…” Diggle finally speaks. He’s wiping his hands on a towel, brow furrowed. “What happened? You were there with me on comms and then - you just - weren’t, and I heard the crash, and I thought - “

Oliver shakes his head. “Digg. I fell asleep on the bike, it was - dumb. I didn’t get enough sleep last night and I just - I shouldn’t have gone on patrol tonight.”

“If that’s the case, you were lucky.”

“ _If_ that’s the case?”

Diggle shifts on his feet. “Felicity… Felicity mentioned that she thought you seemed…” He trails off, looking uncomfortable.

Oliver digs his thumb nail into the pad of his finger.

“Are you okay, man?”

He takes a deep breath. “Digg, I’m fine. Really. I’m just tired.”

Diggle watches him for a moment longer, and Oliver takes a deep breath and shakes his head, smiling lightly.

“Okay,” Diggle nods. “Okay.”

He wishes Oliver good night and heads up the metal stairs. The door clangs shut behind him, echoing through the foundry.

Oliver’s breath catches in his chest.

He’s not fine. God, he’s not fine.

~*~

He forces himself to get some sleep. Two benzos knock him out, but when he jerks awake to the sound of a truck horn and two bright headlights, it takes him a terrifying moment to realize it was just a dream. That he’s still where he left himself.

Oliver checks his watch. He’s only been out for two hours.

He throws the covers back and sets his feet down on the floor, leaning forward until his head is hanging down in-between his knees. He folds his hands together over the back of his neck and closes his eyes, focusing on his breathing until his racing pulse calms down.

He should put a shirt on. He knows the foundry is cold, even if he doesn’t really notice it. Grabbing his gray hoodie from a nearby chair, he pads silently over to Felicity’s computers.

She wasn’t here tonight. Would she have noticed something off about him if she had been? What had she said? _He hasn’t been himself._

When he suited up, would she have seen something else behind his eyes earlier tonight?

He’s almost afraid to start thinking about this again. Afraid he’ll blink and be gone, like before.

He holds his breath and sits down slowly, shoulders tense and hands spread on the table. When he’s fully seated and still exactly where he means to be, he leans back, tilting his head and worrying at the inside of his cheek.

Truth of the matter is - Felicity had scared him. Some of the things she’d said had been too on the nose, too close for comfort. He hadn’t given any thought to his behavior over the last few months, but every word out of Felicity’s mouth had been a little slice of recognition that he wanted to bury away and never look at again.

She said she’d done research - looked in to whatever it is she thinks is wrong with him. Whatever it is that is so _obviously_ broken in him.

He feels like he did something wrong and chased her off, and maybe she wants to give him time to fix himself, but he doesn’t know how long she plans to stay away.

He’s not sure he can do this if she stays away.

He leans in and pulls up google on the internet browser.

~*~

He gives Digg the next night off.

He already knows Felicity isn’t coming in.

The entrance to Dominion is nondescript. The name of the club is spelled out in metal letters above a pair of heavy black doors, and Oliver isn’t quite sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t something so - normal.

He presses the buzzer, shifting his weight from foot to foot, furtively glancing up towards the security camera. He doesn’t wait long before he’s buzzed in.

He’s even more thrown when he steps into a comfortably furnished entrance hall in shades of cream; antique furniture Oliver recognizes as expensive creating a comfortable seating area.

There’s a desk next to another set of doors, and Oliver can hear the low thrum of music coming from the other side.

“First time?” A young, dark-haired man in a black shirt, top three buttons undone, asks him from behind the desk.

Oliver clears his throat, then thinks better of speaking and just nods.

“I can get you started if you’d like to go inside?”

In answer, Oliver steps up to the desk, and the guy smiles.

“I’ll need you to read through this,” he slides a page titled “Dominion Rules and Guidelines” across the top. “Once you’re done, you’ll have to sign that you’ve read and understood all of the rules there at the bottom. As well as a waiver,” he passes the document to Oliver as well. “Will you be paying the cover fee with cash or credit?”

Oliver pulls out his wallet and hands a number of bills across the desk.

The guy - Oliver finally notices a nametag: Josh - continues talking.

“You can leave a valid license with me if you’d like to borrow any props for the evening.”

Oliver shakes his head and clears his throat again. “No, uh - I’m fine.”

“Okay, sir,” Josh hands him back the card. “Just a few important things: there’s no alcohol allowed inside. Dominion is mainly an open room dungeon. Closed rooms are available if needed. You may watch a scene but not interrupt, nudity is permitted but no sex, and no touching unless given permission. There are monitors positioned throughout the dungeon to make sure these rules are followed. They’re all wearing a Dominion shirt. If you should need a monitor for anything at all, you can call for one, or flag one down and they’ll help you with whatever you require. The monitors are there for your protection.”

Oliver swallows, unable to stop the nervous clench he feels in his chest.

“Have you read the rules and guidelines?”

Oliver glances down at the document in his hand. For the most part it just looks like a repetition of what Josh just said. He reads over the section regarding safe words - green for “okay”, yellow for “slow down”, red for “stop immediately” - and his chest tightens a little bit more, but he nods and signs at the bottom. Then he signs the waiver without even reading through it.

“If you’d like to change there’s a changing room right inside. Enjoy your evening, sir.” Josh gestures towards the doors. There’s another buzz, and Oliver pushes through.

Here, at last, Oliver finds what he’d expected to see from the beginning.

The club ( _dungeon_ , he hears Josh’s voice echo in his head), is done up completely in black. The wall, the floors, even the people. He looks across the main floor, plush black sofas in velvet and leather scattered around, people in various states of undress seated comfortably. Well, most seem to be comfortable. Some groups have women or men seated at their feet, wearing collars and not much else.

Oliver looks down at himself. He’s wearing dark jeans and a blue shirt. He shortly considers Josh’s offer of a changing room, but shakes his head.

Heavy drapes hang from the ceiling, making the wide space feel smaller, more intimate. He can see a few of the open rooms through the gaps.

He has no idea where to start. What to do.

Just a vague hope that someone else will.

He takes a deep breath and begins a circuit of the club.

The first room he passes is empty save for a low bench with chains and cuffs attached for hands and feet.

The next room has a crowd of onlookers. He hears the creak of wood and leather and the crack of a whip before he gets a look inside

A man is strapped into a large wooden X, padded cuffs holding him up by his arms and keeping his legs spread. He’s completely naked, head loling on his shoulders as a woman in a black corset draws back a whip. He has marks across his thighs, stomach and chest, yet - he’s very obviously aroused by the entire… situation.

Oliver swallows and turns away before the woman lays on the next lash. It doesn’t stop him from hearing it strike though, and his stomach churns, even as his cock twitches in his pants.

There are fewer people watching the next room. When Oliver looks inside, the scene is less overwhelming than the last room. A young woman is bound face-down to a low cushioned bench. The man standing behind her is holding a flogger, not a whip. The skin of her backside is flushed an angry red, and she’s just muttered a breathless, “Eight.”

The man nods and hits her with the flogger again. He isn’t being gentle, but Oliver can tell he’s exercising restraint. The woman hisses and then says, “Nine.”

Oliver realizes she’s counting out the strikes.

When he delivers the tenth strike, he stops. The woman is breathing heavily, and he gives her a second before he asks, “What are you at?”

She swallows a few times, eyes scrunched tight, and finally answers, “Green, Sir.”

The man nods once again, shakes out the flogger, and says, “Count.”

“One.”

“Two.”

Oliver keeps watching. As the scene plays out, he gets harder and harder in his pants. He’s completely thrown by it. By the man’s steady and consistent strikes. By the woman’s breathy count. He keeps watching her face - how her eyes roll back in her head. How she bites at her lips. By the time the woman reaches ten, her voice has begun to break with every count. When the man asks her what she’s at, Oliver’s breath hitches when she finally responds, “Green,” after a longer pause. And then the count starts over.

This time, the strikes are harder. The restraint is almost gone, like the man is after something, Oliver doesn’t know what. The woman lets out a harsh sob on the third strike. Oliver glances around in alarm, looking for one of the monitors, and realizes there’s one standing right next to him, watching as well. But the monitor isn’t doing anything - why?

“Is she okay?” he asks, voice low.

The monitor glances over and smiles kindly. “Kayla is a regular here. She knows to safeword if it’s too much for her. And Garrett knows where to draw the line.”

Kayla screams with the next strike, yelling out a sharp, “Four!”

Oliver’s hands clench into fists, every muscle in his back tightening. The next time Garrett strikes her, the scream ends in a sob, and Kayla begins shaking, gasping through tears. She doesn’t count out the number, and Garrett waits a few seconds until it becomes clear that she won’t.

He places the flogger on a chair behind him and walks around to kneel in front of her, and begins murmuring softly. Oliver can’t hear what he’s saying, but Kayla nods, still crying.

Garrett reaches up, cupping her face in his hands and running his thumbs across her cheeks, and Oliver realizes - they know each other. He can see it in Garrett’s eyes. This isn’t a one time thing, or two strangers who met in a club. They’re together.

Oliver suddenly feels like an intruder. He shouldn’t be watching this - something so… private. He isn’t a part of it, and while no one else seems to feel the same way, Oliver backs away from the scene.

He’s seen enough. He didn’t come here to spectate.

But as he makes his way back towards the common area, a weight settles in his gut. He glances around, feeling off balance, not entirely sure how or who to -

“You want to come with me.”

Oliver spins to find a black woman in leather reclining in an armchair, sipping a glass of what must be water, since he knows there’s no alcohol allowed in the club. Her hair is pulled up into a tight ponytail, and her cherry red lips leave a mark on the glass when she lowers it to the small table on her right.

She stands up, and she’s almost of a height with Oliver.

“Do I?” he says almost blankly.

The woman smirks at him, and seems to take it as flirtation. “I’m Candi.”

Oliver clears his throat, shifting his weight. “Oliver.”

“Oliver,” she rolls his name on her tongue and then smiles. “You’re adorable,” she says. “I’ve been watching you try to find yourself since you walked in here. Come play with me. I’ll take care of you.”

It isn’t a request, that much is clear.

And honestly, isn’t that what he came for? But his fingers are itching for a bow string, and he can smell the scent of well-oiled green leather. He glances towards the exit, hesitating for a second, but then nods at her.

Candi leads the way past several open rooms towards the back of the club. Oliver eyes each one with unease before they move past it.

“You look a little shy for an audience, sweetie. Maybe next time.” She opens a door he hadn’t noticed previously, and Oliver ignores the short rush of relief he feels and steps inside.

The click of the door shuts out all the noise from the club and the sudden quiet hums in his ears. He glances around, checking for other doors, windows, but there aren’t any.

His skin is vibrating, just below the surface, a constant buzz that sets his teeth on edge.

“Any specific requests or show stoppers, Oliver?” Candi asks, turning her back to him and going through a cabinet on the other side of the room.

The room is spare. Nothing to tie him down to, no benches or crosses or chairs. Then Oliver looks up and sees the hook in the ceiling.

He swallows roughly, looking back down to see Candi unraveling rope.

He feels panic claw for a moment at his throat before he manages to tamp it back down.

No. This is how it has to be. If he wants to fix this, be… whole again - then…

“Just,” Oliver takes a shaky breath. “Just, stay where I can see you.”

Candi purses her lips and nods. “Done. Take your shirt off.”

Her voice is curt, commanding, brooking no room for argument. Oliver raises shaky fingers to unbutton his shirt before slowly pulling it off, while Candi turns back to finish with the rope.

He lets the cloth slide to the floor, immediately missing the flimsy protection it had offered, insignificant as it was.

“Okay, let’s get st-” Candi falls silent when she catches sight of his torso. Oliver swallows, staring at a point just above her head and behind her.

Candi steps right up to him and Oliver forces himself to stand still.

“You said you want me to stay where you can see me, right?” she asks, and Oliver finally looks down. Her expression is calculating, shrewd. He doesn’t like it.

“Yes,” he says, voice low.

Candi holds his gaze for three more seconds before he has to look away.

“Okay,” she says. “Oliver, you remember the safe words. Recite them for me.”

“Green, yellow, red.”

“Yes. Green means you’re okay to continue, yellow means slow down or stop, and we’ll talk about what it is that’s bothering you, and red means stop immediately.”

Oliver nods.

“Say them again, Oliver.”

He feels the faintest trace of irritation. He knows the fucking words. “Green, yellow, red,” he says again, more firmly.

“I’m going to tie you up,” she says. “Then I’m going to use this.” She holds up a riding crop. “You will be able to see me at all times. What are you at, Oliver?”

“Green.”

Candi nods. “Okay, then.”

She lifts his arms and begins binding his wrists. The bindings are tight but leave just enough room to allow circulation.

They aren’t loose enough that he could get out if he wanted to, not without a knife.

He clenches his jaw.

Then Candi lifts his hands up above his head, and in a moment, they’re secured to the suspension hook in the ceiling. He still has both feet planted on the ground, he isn’t hanging from his wrists, and yet-

_“Where can I find the man in this picture?”_

Immediately, he’s assailed with the sharp memory of Edward Fyers smiling at him while a man in an orange and black mask slowly sinks a knife into his gut. His ears fill with his own screams until he blinks, and it’s just him and Candi. He hasn’t made a sound, and she’s crouched at his feet, binding his legs together.

He takes a slow deep breath.

“What are you at?” Candi stands, facing him.

He’s fine, he’s okay, this is fine. “Green,” he says.

He consciously slows his breathing down, forces his muscles to relax.

_“If I only knew the way you were spending your nights…”_ Malcolm Merlyn’s voice is colder than the ice water dripping down his back. The weightless terror of letting go after climbing to the top of his chains, of falling in an effort to break free, clenches in his stomach. He tastes blood.

Candi’s eyeing her work. Oliver realizes he’s bitten the inside of his cheek. Slow, even breaths.

Someone is yelling at him in Russian. “Бесполезний мусор!” they shout in his face, spittle hitting him in his eye. “Я убью тебя, а потом буду смеяться на твою смерте!” The walls of the gulag are closing in around him, and his right shoulder is screaming in pain. He knows it’s seconds away from coming out of the socket, he can feel it.

Oliver watches as Candi draws back the riding crop and then-

He goes away.

Oliver’s vaguely aware of what’s happening: Candi’s movements, always in view, the whip snap of the riding crop. He can almost feel it where it strikes, but everything’s distant, muffled as though through thick cotton.

His body goes on autopilot - he answers “Green,” when Candi asks him where he’s at, he keeps his breathing even, muscles loose. Does everything that’s expected of him.

It should be enough to keep Candi going until she’s finished with him, but she stops suddenly.

“Green,” he says again.

But she doesn’t look appeased. She’s saying something, yelling, and Oliver drags himself to the surface enough to catch his name, which throws the rest of him into stark relief.

He sucks in a gasp.

“Oliver, breathe!” Candi looks panicked, which does nothing to help him parse the sudden influx of sensation. He pulls too hard at his bindings for a moment and they cut into his skin, and his chest is on fire, little slices of pain crisscrossing along his torso.

“Oliver, I’m going to cut you loose, okay? Hold still!” Her voice is pleading. She has medical shears in her right hand, and Oliver forces himself to stand still, swallowing several times against the sudden onslaught of nausea.

It seems to take her forever, but she finally gets his legs loose and then his arms.   
Pins and needles shoot up and down from his shoulders to his fingertips with the sudden increase in blood flow.

She holds his shirt out for him. “Can I help you with-”

Oliver shakes his head, taking the shirt and yanking it on.

He backs away from her, towards the door, stumbling for a moment on the rope on the floor. Candi’s eyes are wide with concern, and for a moment, all he can see is Felicity, looking at him the exact same way.

He grabs for the door handle. “Sorry,” he mumbles, looking away from her, and backs out.

He heads straight for the exit. He stumbles a few more times, not paying attention to the furniture placement on the main floor, eyes on the double doors on the other side of the room.

His stomach is churning - fuck he isn’t sure he’s going to make it outside before he loses it, but he finally pushes into the entrance hall, startling Josh, and then out onto the street.

He makes it seven steps before he hits the ground, retching on his hands and knees, alone on a dark sidewalk in the middle of downtown Starling.

He doesn’t stop until there’s nothing left but bile, and even then, his body carries on for another few heaves.

He finally sits back on his heels, clammy and shaking.

Someone clears their throat from several feet behind him.

A small part of him knows he should have known someone was there, heard them coming, but he’s too sluggish and tired to care. He’s too dizzy to turn around. He just wants to lie down - hide somewhere - but he can’t bring himself to move.

“Hey there.” It’s a woman’s voice, soft, unassuming. Oliver watches her come around him in a wide arc until she stops, several feet away, and crouches down. She holds her hands up in front of her.

She’s dressed in black jeans and a black tee-shirt, and she has auburn hair. She speaks again, and her voice is soothing. “My name is Sage. I run the club. Are you hurt?”

Oliver swallows, breathing shallowly.

Sage takes a step closer and Oliver’s shoulders stiffen.

“Hey, hey, okay.” She backs away again. “Candi said you looked like you had a bad reaction to a scene. Do you think you can tell me what happened?”

Oliver slumps into himself, too tired to think about it. He doesn’t want to think about it. He pulls himself over to the side of the building, leaning against the cement foundation.

He shakes his head.

“Okay. Thats okay. I’ve got a bottle of water here. Do you think you could drink a little for me?”

Oliver’s stomach roils at the thought, but he nods anyway. The woman, Sage, comes closer again, one step at a time, staying at this level, until she’s just close enough to reach out and hand him the bottle. She opens it while he watches before passing it to him, and he takes it from her, taking a small sip, breathing through his nose.

“What’s your name?”

The question is absurd enough that it grounds him. Who in Starling City wouldn’t recognize him? He answers nonetheless.

“Oliver,” he says, and winces. He doesn’t recognize his own voice. It sounds like it’s coming from someone else.

Sage nods. “Okay, Oliver. Is there someone I can call for you?”

He hates that his first thought is Felicity.

What would she do if she saw him like this? What would she say if she knew how badly he’d fucked everything up?

He doesn’t know. But there’s no one else.

She’s going to have to pick up his mess again.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He hesitates for a moment, before handing it to Sage. He can’t make the call himself. His chest tightens at the thought, at the very idea of having to explain this to her.

“Under ‘F’”, he says. “Felicity Smoak.”

Sage pauses for a moment, but the she swipes at the screen and goes through his contacts until she finds what she’s looking for. Then she’s backing away.

Oliver doesn’t hear the phone call. He closes his eyes, fighting against the feeling of shame welling up inside of him and clawing up his throat. He shifts and brushes against a welt from the riding crop, hissing in surprise, his eyes stinging. He makes himself small and leans back, carefully this time, knowing he has only himself to blame.

~*~

Felicity’s not sure anything will ever trump the total consternation she feels answering a phone call from Oliver only to hear Sage on the other end.

She stands in the middle of her office, listening in complete shock to Sage explain that Felicity needs to get over there; as she tells her what happened.

The moment she hangs up, Felicity is a flurry of motion. She gets her things together and is out of the office in record time, not even bothering to say goodbye on her way out.

Once she’s actually on the road, driving much faster than she should be, the shock recedes, leaving anger in its wake.

She is _furious_. Furious and - hurt.

She doesn’t know the whole story, not yet. Sage was adamant that she get to the club as quickly as possible. But the one thing she does know is that instead of coming to her, asking her for help, after she had _offered_ , Oliver went to a club instead and things _backfired_.

A car horn blares directly behind her, and Felicity looks up just in time to realize that the traffic light in front of her has turned red. She slams on the breaks, gritting her teeth and gripping the steering wheel in frustration.

“Stupid, _stupid_!” She doesn’t know whether she’s talking about the light or Oliver.

She spends the rest of the drive going over all of the things she wants to say to him, fueling her anger, because to be honest, it hurts less than thinking about the fact that he chose strangers over her.

She had opened herself up and managed to work up the courage to talk to him, to suggest this insane idea, left herself vulnerable and waiting. She thought she’d been clear - suggesting bdsm as an outlet - suggesting _herself_ as an outlet. The words collect on her tongue, just waiting to be let loose.

But when she pulls up in front of the club five minutes later, she’s struck dumb and all of her fury leaves her when she spots Oliver standing hunched against the wall, looking broken and crumpled in on himself. His shirt is only half buttoned, his hair is matted down, and he looks pale and sick.

The full weight of Sage’s phone call settles on her shoulders, because she has _never_ seen Oliver look like that, and she’s terrified to think what could have caused it.

He looks up when she opens her car door, eyes widening for a moment before looking away.

“Oh…” she exclaims softly. She shuts the door and comes around the car, making a beeline for him, her hands reaching up to touch him. But he shrinks away, eyes downcast in what looks like shame, and she lets her hands drop. That’s when she spots the red splotches on his chest, and all at once her fury returns in full force.

She spins, looking for Sage. The Domme is standing next to the entrance to her club, watching from a distance, and Felicity marches right up to her.

“How could you let this happen?” she asks her, voice low. Everything in her wants to scream - to cry and yell, but Oliver doesn’t need to hear it. Not now.

“This is your club!” Her voice is shaking, and Felicity knows she isn’t being fair, but she looks back towards Oliver, and can’t bring herself to care. “Why didn’t you realize what was going on?”

Sage narrows her eyes. “Stop,” she says, bringing a hand up and shaking her head. “Stop right there.”

Felicity takes a deep breath and clenches her hands.

“Felicity, I know you’re upset, but you’re not angry at me. And even though you’re new to all of this, you also know how it works. We do the best we can to prevent things like this from happening, but this is the world. It is what it is. Sometimes there is just no way to know what’s happening in a sub’s head. That’s what the safe words are for, that’s what _all_ of the contracts are for.”

Felicity doesn’t want to hear any of it, but at the same time, she knows Sage is right.

“Your sub didn’t safe word, he didn’t give any indication that something was wrong. Candi was positive he’d gone into sub-space. There was no way for her to know what she was dealing with, and it wasn’t until a few minutes in that she realized he wasn’t getting what he needed out of the scene, and she let him loose. That’s when she came to get me.”

The Domme sighs. “He _is_ yours, right? This is the sub you’re doing all of this for, huh?”

For a moment, Felicity lets Sage’s words sink in, feels the shape of them, how _right_ they are, but then the moment’s gone, and she laughs bitterly, tears stinging in her eyes.

“Mine,” she murmurs. “I _wanted_ him to be. I thought -” She swallows, the anger abandoning her for the moment and leaving only hurt in its place. “I thought I could help him? I thought he trusted me enough to -” the burning in her throat forces her to stop. And that’s when she realizes who she’s really angry at.

“I never should have left him,” she says, after a shaky breath. “I know him better than that.”

Sage’s eyes soften, but her words are hard. “That’s your job, to know him better - better than anyone else. Sometimes better than he knows himself. And you’re going to make mistakes. And those mistakes will have big consequences.” She nods towards Oliver, to prove her point. “But you’re just human too, and part of being a Domme is also figuring out how to make it better.”

Felicity’s shoulders drop. “But I’m not. His Domme, I mean.”

Sage ducks her head slightly to make sure she catches Felicity’s eyes and raises an eyebrow. “Yes, you are,” she says.

Felicity glances back towards Oliver and takes a deep breath. Well, whether she is or not, she’ll have to do.

~*~

The ride back to the foundry is quiet. Oliver looks silently out the window, and Felicity doesn’t try to make small talk.

They need to talk, of that she has no doubt, but she just needs to get him somewhere _safe_ first.

The hum of her computers is a welcoming sound as they come down the stairs, and she knows it’s only been two days, but she’s missed it. The foundry has become as much a home to her as her apartment - a safe space not only for Oliver, but for her as well.

She drops her things into her chair with a sigh and immediately moves to rummage through the medical drawers, pulling out antiseptic, arnica and cotton, and then grabbing a washcloth and running it under cold water.

When she turns, Oliver is already seated on the medical table, waiting for her. They’ve done this so many times, it’s routine, even if the circumstances are slightly different this time around.

Forcing herself to keep her breathing even, Felicity sets the things down on the table next to Oliver and moves forward, standing in between his legs.

She starts with the washcloth, wiping at his face gently, cleaning off the sweat and grime, brushing his hair back before moving down his neck, then gently, to his chest. She undoes the buttons of his shirt but doesn’t push it off, just pulls the two sides open.

Most of the redness on his chest is gone, the swelling and welts a distant memory. There are a couple that might bruise a little, but there isn’t much to do. Felicity dabs some arnica onto the cotton anyway. She’s in no rush. She knows once she finishes, she’ll have to fill the silence with words, and she isn’t really sure how to begin. In the meanwhile, the ritual of tending to Oliver is soothing her as much as she hopes it’s soothing him.

“I’m sorry,” Oliver finally mumbles. It’s the first words either of them have spoken to each other in days.

Felicity freezes for a moment, then finishes dabbling at the worst of the bruises. She sets the cotton aside, folding her lips between her teeth and looking down at Oliver’s legs bracketing her waist.

“No,” she says softly, “ _I’m_ sorry.” She’s gone through a myriad of emotions tonight, enough to give anyone emotional whiplash, but the one thing she’s sure of right now is that she’s the one who owes the apology.

“I should have been here. Yesterday. Tonight. I should have _been_ here. You never would have gone if I had been. Maybe you wouldn’t have even felt like you had to. I should have known better. I _do_ know better, and it was just so irresponsible and I just -” God, there’s so much she wants to say, but she forces herself to stop. She won’t make the same mistake a second time. She won’t put this on him, won’t leave him scrambling to make sense of it.

She looks back up, dropping every pretense, laying herself bare.

“I am _so_ sorry, Oliver.”

Oliver looks completely dumbfounded.

“Why?” he asks her, voice broken. “Why are you - you’re not - _I’m_ the one who-”

Felicity takes his face in her hands, shaking her head.

“I thought I had the answer, and I thought just giving it to you would make everything else fall into place. I dropped a huge revelation on you and then I just - left. I left you to figure it out when the whole point was that we need to figure this out together.”

“I don’t understand.”

And Felicity smiles sadly, because he still doesn’t see it. But that’s okay.

“I never meant for you to do this on your own. And when we spoke the other day I don’t think I was clear enough.” She takes a deep breath. “ _I_ want to be the one to help you. _Me_ , Oliver. Not some random person in a club, or anyone else.”

Oliver’s hands come up to grip her wrists, and for a second Felicity is terrified that he’s going to pull her hands away, retreat into himself as she’s watched him do for months.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he holds on, tethering himself to her. She sees the moment he finally gets it, the slight widening of his eyes, the hitch to his breath.

She nods, swallowing past the lump in her throat.

“Please let me do this for you, Oliver.”

She brushes her thumbs across his cheeks and Oliver’s eyes fall shut, the tension draining out of him.

He takes a shaky breath. “I think I can do that.”

Something lets loose inside of her and the tears she’s been holding at bay for months spill over. “Alright.” She sniffles. “Good.”

She leans in, resting her forehead against his.

“We can do this,” she says. She lets herself take comfort in the moment for a few more seconds before pulling away, taking a few steps back. Oliver let’s his hands drop and opens his eyes, waiting on her.

“We’re going to have to set ground rules, go over everything, and talk about what happened tonight.”

Oliver stares down at the floor.

“I need you to trust me if we’re going to do this. We don’t have to talk tonight, but we can’t go forward until we do.”

Oliver nods. “I know. And I do - trust you.” He looks back up. “I trust you, Felicity.”

That trust is a hard-earned burden and a gift, Felicity is all too aware.

“And what about me?” she asks in return. “Can I trust you?”

For a second she flashes back to a rainy night in a coffee shop, asking this very same question, knowing the answer would change her life. And this time around is no different.

Oliver frowns, and she shakes her head. “I need to know that if _anything_ is ever wrong, if something is bothering you, if I’m hurting you in any way, making you feel unsafe, that you’ll tell me. Safe words exist for a reason, Oliver. I need to know that I can trust you to use them if the situation calls for it, that I can trust you to be as honest with me as I promise to be with you.”

She squares her shoulders. “So, can I trust you?”

Oliver grips the edge of the medical table, sliding off and moving to stand directly in front of her.

“Yes,” he says, voice low and weighted with sincerity. “You can trust me.”

There’s still a lot to work out, a long way for both of them to go. But it’s a start.

“Okay,” Felicity says, nodding. “Okay.”

Oliver falls asleep that night with her watching over him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would never have managed to complete this chapter without the help of Abbie, Ash818, LadyChi and Effie214. You ladies mean the world to me, and your continued support has seen me through writing one of the most difficult projects I have ever taken on.   
> I have never struggled as hard as I did when writing this chapter. Getting into Oliver's head was emotionally draining in a way I didn't know writing could be. I have had difficulty waking up in the mornings, no matter how many hours of sleep I got, because of the emotional toll writing this took on me.  
> That being said, writing this chapter was also one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. Like Felicity and Oliver, I have left myself completely bare and given you all a glimpse into my soul. I hope it's to your liking.  
> To be continued.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: This chapter depicts a BDSM scene with intense physical, emotional, and sexual content, including intentional sensory overload.

Graphic by [fe-li-ci-ty](http://fe-li-ci-ty.tumblr.com/).

* * *

 

She knows more often than not acting out a scene is referred to as play, but this feels like the very furthest thing from playing.

Felicity checks her supplies for the fifth time in half an hour. In the quiet emptiness of her living room, the weight of each minute counting down to 9 PM presses down on her chest, and the only way she’s found to relieve the pressure is to focus on small things, like making sure the medical shears are where she left them, and that she has enough water.

She’s pushed the sofas back against the wall, rolled the rug up and replaced it with comfortable mats, transforming her living room into a large space for her and Oliver to -

She’s not quite sure what to call it. There’s too much at stake for both of them.

“So, um, we should definitely talk about what each of us is and isn’t okay with,” she said when they discussed boundaries, smoothing her skirt to try and settle herself. The foundry was familiar and comfortable around them.

“Okay. I’m not really sure - I don’t know what…” He sighed, frowning. “Is there some sort of a list? I can’t really set boundaries if I don’t know what the options are.”

Felicity shook her head. “Of course, I - duh. Obviously you don’t. This is totally new to you, and I’ve spent the last couple of weeks researching, but you haven’t, and I can’t expect you to - “

“Felicity.”

Oliver’s eyes were soft when they caught the light. He’d seemed more relaxed from the moment they’d made a decision, and now she was the one who felt out of her depth.

“I’m sorry… We’re being brutally honest here, right?”

Oliver nodded.

“I know I seem to have all the answers, but I don’t, and I’m really nervous.” She bit back a hysterical laugh. “I don’t want to mess anything up. You’re trusting me and I don’t want to hurt you.”

He reached across her lap and took one of her hands, holding it tightly.

“Felicity. I - I have a lot of issues. I think we’ve realized that. But trusting you?” He let out a little huff of air. “That’s not one of them. I know you want to figure everything out, and we should do that, it’s important. But I know you’d never do something that would hurt me, or cross any hard lines. So if you think it’s right - I’ll be okay with it. It’s fine.”

Well, that didn’t make it any better. Felicity bit her lip.

“Really?” she asked. “Because these scenes often elicit a, uh, a sexual response. Sometimes it’s unavoidable, and if you’re not comfortable with that, we could try to avoid -”

Oliver squeezed her hand, and his eyes were burning when she looked up.

“It’s fine.”

Somehow, even as heat spread through her, she felt better. If Oliver really trusted her, enough to do this, then she could find a way to trust herself.

She looks over the surface of the sideboard. The medical shears _are_ where she left them, in addition to several bottles of water, and a first aid kit. Three lengths of rope, measured and remeasured, as well as a couple of carefully selected items, complete the collection.

The doorbell rings at exactly nine o’clock.

Heart thudding wildly in her chest, Felicity moves to the door. She has to pause for a breath to center herself before she pulls it open.

Oliver looks surprised on the other side, as though a part of him didn’t expect her to.

“Hi.”

They both speak at the same time, and then laugh stiffly.

Oliver shuffles and gestures vaguely towards the street.

“I, uh, I got here ten minutes ago. I probably should have just knocked, but you said nine, and I didn’t want to get here too early so I waited in my car…”

“Oh! You didn’t have to, you could have -” Felicity shakes her head, pushing past her own panic, and gestures him inside.

“I have everything set up, so we can start whenever you feel, um, yeah. Do you-” She can feel the ramble coming on and can’t stop it. Anything - she just needs something to fill in the vast space Oliver had brought into the house along with his own larger than life frame. “I know you’ve probably already eaten, but can I offer you something? Water? A snack?” She pauses, and then to her own horror adds, “I have wheat thins?”

She looks back at him and he’s smiling, looking more comfortable now that she’s made a complete fool of herself. And okay. This is going to be okay.

“Bathroom’s that way,” she points down the hall and Oliver nods and goes to change out of his t-shirt. Felicity’s glad for his decision to go shirtless for the scene. Something form fitting would have been fine, but working the rope will be easier without clothes getting in the way.

Felicity can feel the discomfort coming off of him in waves when he comes back into the room. He shifts his weight back and forth in the center of the living room, crossing his arms in front of his bare chest.

Oh. She needs him to relax. And the longer they wait to start, the more tense Oliver is going to get. It’s all going to stay just to the left of awkward until she decides to take charge.

Squaring her shoulders, Felicity pulls herself up to her full height, lifting her chin. The response is immediate. It doesn’t matter that at her full height she is still a head shorter than him, Oliver reacts. He stands straighter, drops his arms, looks more alert.

Felicity nods once.

“We already discussed the rules for tonight, but I’m going to go over them again.” She takes a deep breath. “Get on your knees.”

Oliver’s eyes go wide for a moment, but he swallows and slowly drops to his knees, the mat dulling the thud.

She is shaking inside - if only Oliver knew. It’s a mix of sheer terror at what she’s about to do and a heady thrill at the sight of Oliver looking up at her.

He’d do anything she told him to right now.

Oh God.

Oliver blinks, looking away, and Felicity snaps her attention back to him. She shakes her head, but he can’t see her. “No,” she says. “Look up at me, Oliver.”

It takes a count of two breaths before he obeys and when he does, she arches an eyebrow at him. He swallows.

“You will do as I say.”

Oliver nods.

“You will respond promptly to my commands.”

Nod.

“If at any point you need me to stop, you _will_ use a safeword - do you understand?”

Again.

“What are you at, Oliver?”

His answer is immediate. “Green.”

Felicity lets her eyes soften. “Good,” she tells him. “You’re already doing so well.”

\--

Oliver isn’t prepared for the rush of sensation that comes with Felicity’s words.

Reviewing everything in excruciating detail felt weird to Oliver. Agreeing to try a scene was one thing. But setting a date and time made it terrifyingly real. And since then, he hasn’t been able to shake the feeling that he’s done something irreversible. It’s followed him, like a humid fog, heavy, and inescapable and - weird. Like someone traced the world and then moved the frame a quarter of an inch.

He can never take this back.

Even worse is the small niggling feeling trickling down into his throat - what if it’s all bullshit and the hype is just that - hype? What if it doesn’t work and he has to look Felicity in the eye again afterwards? What if neither of them can undo it?

But the sudden thickening of his cock at her praise, the way he goes half hard in his pants with pleasure at the thought that he’s pleased her-

Oh.

Warmth spreads up his torso and down along his legs and a small measure of tension eases out of his shoulders.

When Felicity steps over to the sideboard and picks up a length of rope, his heart misses a beat.

“Pay attention to what I’m going to tell you now,” she says, coming to stand in front of him again.

His heart picks up again at what feels like double the speed.

“I am going to tie your arms behind your back,” she explains, in the voice she uses when she’s describing a new piece of tech to him. “The binding is going to be tight, and you won’t be able to get out. I can let you out any time you need me to, but you won’t be able to get out on your own. Do you understand?”

His fingertips are tingling, and is the tightness in his chest is from anxiety or from adrenaline? He swallows, feeling light-headed, and tries to breathe evenly.

“Oliver? Where are you at?”

He wants to answer, he does. He wants to tell her he’s okay, wants to _be_ okay, but he needs to breathe first, needs to make sure.

Honesty. He promised her honesty.

~*~

Maybe they should be starting out slower. Something easier tonight? This isn’t going to work if Felicity can’t get him out of his head. Maybe this is all wrong.

“Oliver-”

”Give me a second,” he says firmly. “I’m trying to work it out.”

“Oh.” It’s soft, a little exhale of surprise, and Felicity immediately falls silent.

His shoulders rise and fall with each breath, and he frowns at the floor. When his breathing picks up, he shuts his eyes, and Felicity can see how hard he’s trying to control it. His hands tighten into fists, and maybe he’s trying to settle himself down, but he isn’t. He’s working himself up.

She gives him a few more seconds to try and get through it on his own, before she realizes - that’s not what this is about. So Felicity throws caution to the wind and follows her instincts.

His hair is soft when she runs her fingers through it, taking a firm grip and tilting his head back so he’s looking up at her from on his knees.

She doesn’t break eye contact, just holds on, breathing deeply.

“Breathe.” The order is soft, gentle. “Watch me, and take your time. I am not going to do anything that I think would hurt you, or that you don’t want me to do.”

She raises her eyebrows.

”Breathe with me, Oliver.”

Felicity counts slowly to four in her head while she inhales and exhales deliberately, and Oliver watches, matching each breath - slow, easy.

“Slow, easy.”

In and out. In and out. Oliver unclenches his fists.

“Let’s try this again.” Felicity hasn’t let go of his hair. She anchors him in place, making sure he’s looking her in the eyes, can see the truth of her words.

“I am going to bind your arms and you won’t be able to get out on your own. But, if at any point, you feel unsafe, or uncomfortable, you can safeword and I will cut you free.”

She slips her hand from his hair down to cup his cheek.

“I _will_ cut you free, Oliver. Do you understand?”

His eyes fall shut, leaning into the touch. Another deep breath.

“Yes.”

“Where are you at, Oliver?”

He still gives pause, genuinely considering his answer, and it fills Felicity with hope that they can do this. She needs to trust him to take his own safety as seriously as she does.

“Green,” he says, with the smallest hint of a smile.

She runs her thumb across his cheek-bone and lets go, tilting her head in question and he nods.

Wow. Okay, wow. Felicity has to work to keep her expression neutral. Fear and anxiety and - _excitement_ mingle together in the pit of her stomach, but on the surface, she’s in control.

“I’m going to step behind you to do this.”

“Okay,” he responds, nodding again.

She crouches down behind him, running her hand down his right arm. There’s a sharp intake of breath as he shivers, and Felicity gently takes his wrist, trailing her fingers across his palm.

Oliver lets out a small hum of - pleasure? surprise? Felicity isn’t sure, but it makes something clench deep in her stomach. She takes Oliver’s other wrist and brings both arms up behind his back, folding them over each other. “I need to you hold your forearms,” she tells him firmly. “Just grip them lightly.”

He complies immediately, and Felicity skims her fingers down his upper back. “Good,” she murmurs, her voice low, and this time she knows she isn’t imagining the shiver and hum of what is definitely _pleasure_ that come from him in response.

Pride swells in her chest. Yes. This is how it should be. Order, compliance, reward. She wants him to listen to her, to submit, so that she can reward him. It makes her feel strong, sure of herself, and most of all, like he needs her.

And he does. He needs _her_.

She pulls the rope around his wrists and waits to see if he reacts badly, but Oliver keeps on breathing, slow and steady, and Felicity is so proud of him - wishes she could tell him. But they still have a long way to go, and she begins the long intricate tie she’s been practicing for over a week.

It’s a harness tie, one that will go around his shoulders and chest, binding him tightly. She gets the initial single column tie done around his wrists, and once she’s run her finger under the binding, making sure she’s left enough slack so that Oliver’s circulation won’t be cut off, she brings the rope up to circle his shoulder. She holds it in place, reaching around him to pull it across his chest.

And stops.

His skin is warm beneath her hands, heart beating steadily. She can feel it against her forearm, and she breathes in, overwhelmed for a moment by the scent of his neck, his hair, the musky shampoo he uses. She’s completely pressed up against his back, in a sudden embrace - one that she’s about to mimic with rope, and he’s entirely still - _letting_ her.

“Felicity?”

More to give herself the second she needs and to mask her own hesitation, she asks, “Where are you at, Oliver?” She keeps her voice firm. _She’s_ in control.

He doesn’t even pause. “Green,” he answers.

“Ok.” She pulls back, drawing the rope across his chest and over his other shoulder, and then double checks both sides to make sure nothing is compressing his radial nerve. It looks okay. She hopes it’s okay.

_Okay_.

She pulls the rope straight across Oliver’s back, her fingers dragging intentionally along the skin. She wants to make him shiver again and she isn’t disappointed. She hugs his torso once more, this time without pause, winding the rope a second time around his chest. She is careful to layer this circuit beneath the first one. The wider the expanse of the rope, the less it will compress specific pressure points.

“Oliver - I’m going to cinch this and tie it off before I continue, and then you won’t have to hold your arms up anymore, they can rest in the cradle, okay?”

He nods.

“Oliver.” Felicity makes her voice stern. She wants him to get used to using his words, to vocalizing everything. Nodding is a bad habit she won’t allow.

“Yes,” he says, “Okay.”

Right.

She draws the rope beneath the stem and cinches the tie.

~*~

Something tightens in Oliver’s chest along with the rope. His arms are firmly pulled up behind him, and he can suddenly just - let go. The tension in his upper arms releases as he lets them settle into the cradle.

He shifts his wrists a little, twists them apart, testing the binding. It’s strong. It isn’t tight, but Felicity was right. He can’t get out of this.

The thought should terrify him.

But he can feel her breath on the back of his neck when she reaches around him, running a finger under the ropes to even them out. Her body is warm at his back, her shirt brushing against his fingertips. She pulls and tugs with deft hands, cinching the rope under each arm, and instead of scrabbling to get free, he lets go. He’s shut his instincts off, abandoned his hypervigilance. He doesn’t have anything to be terrified of, because Felicity would _never_ hurt him.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, along with all of his remaining tension. He goes loose, settling into the binding around his chest.

Another circuit of rope, just under his chest muscles and both of his arms, pulls them in a little more tightly to his body, binding him that much more securely.

Oliver takes another breath, and this time, on the exhale, it feels like his bones are dissolving, like he might just fall apart and melt away. But the ropes hold, grounding him.

The tighter the binding, the more he relaxes into it.

And then Felicity ties off the end of the rope and stands.

~*~

Oliver’s breathing has slowed so much she can barely tell when he exhales. He’s slumped forward, and looks so completely relaxed, that Felicity almost feels bad for what she has planned next.

She might if she didn’t know how necessary it was.

She trails her fingers along the stem of the harness as she stands, carding them through the hair at the nape of Oliver’s neck and up over his head. He shivers, but his breathing remains steady.

He looks _beautiful_.

Oliver Queen - docile on his knees, bound tightly in rope by _her_ \- is possibly the most evocative thing she’s ever seen.

There’s a flood of warmth between her legs, and she has to bite her lip hard to try and tamp down on the intense wave of arousal. Not now.

She keeps her hand on his head and comes around to his front, crouching again and cupping his cheek.

“Oliver,” she murmurs softly. “Where are you at?”

When he looks up at her he looks drugged. _God_.

“Green,” he says, his voice cracking.

“Okay.” She moves towards the sidebar, lighting a few scented candles and giving him a couple more moments of peace. Then she reaches for the long strip of black cloth next to them.

She comes to stand over him again, squaring her shoulders.

“Oliver, look at me.”

Blinking, he lifts his head.

“Oliver,” she says, and steels herself. “I’m going to blindfold you now.”

~*~

Within seconds, his haze of calm dissipates and Oliver’s muscles tighten as his body automatically goes into over-drive, cataloguing everything around him. With the knowledge that he is going to be bound and blindfolded, his hypervigilance returns full force.

The ropes suddenly feel too tight.

“Oliver!” Felicity doesn’t raise her voice, but her tone gets his attention. He freezes, breathing fast, and watching her.

“I am going to blindfold you, but I will not leave this room. Do you understand? I am not going anywhere. I will be here, watching over you, the entire time.” She crouches in front of him, mouth set in a grim line.

“You can use the safe words at any time. What are they, Oliver?”

He has to swallow twice before he can force himself to speak. “Green, yellow, red.”

“Good. You _know_ them. And you can use them at any time.”

He manages a nod, even though he’s tamping down on his panic.

Felicity drapes the black cloth over her shoulder and takes his face in her hands. “Let’s try again. I am going to blindfold you. I won’t do anything to hurt you, and I will be here, in the room, the entire time. Do you understand?”

He wants to believe her - does believe her, even if his body hasn’t caught up yet. He tightens his fists and nods again. “Yes,” he amends, remembering her earlier rebuke.

“Good.” She pulls the cloth from her shoulder and gives him a pointed look, eyebrows raised in question. Oliver takes a deep breath, but doesn’t pull away.

The world goes dark.

~*~

Felicity is silent as she steps back. This is it. If everything doesn’t fall apart in the next two minutes, then she’ll be able to take him the rest of the way.

Oliver’s shoulders tense, his chest rises and falls more quickly and he strains lightly against his bindings. He can’t help it - it’s a natural response. Despite agreeing to the blindfold his instincts are telling him to run.

She just needs him to last for two minutes. He can do it. She knows he can do it.

Her own heart is pounding as every one of her instincts screams at her to go to him. She has to clench her fists against the urge.

Just a touch, a hand on his shoulder, in his hair, on his face - he’d calm down right away. Instead, she leans against the sideboard and crosses her arms over her chest, forcing herself to keep her hands to herself, and waits.

~*~

Every sense available to him is firing on all cylinders, and every nerve is an exposed wire. Without his sight, he strains for any sound, the slightest shift of air, the smell of anyone coming closer, even if he can’t see them.

But there’s nothing. He should at least be able to tell where Felicity is, but he can’t.

The scent of the candles, tangy and sharp, is masking her strawberry shampoo, and there’s nothing - no movement from anywhere in the room, no sound.

He should be able to tell where she is. She has to be in the room. She’d promised.

_Where is she?_

Something’s wrong with him. He swallows, trying to wet his throat. He should be able to tell. He should _know_ where Felicity is, but the feel of the rope is distracting. Even when he isn’t moving, rough and unrelenting. The hemp digs into his arms and chest, rubbing against his skin, and he feels the tiniest flare of panic as he tugs his wrists. He’s just off, so off, and completely -

No. She’s here. Felicity is in the room.

If there’s one thing he knows, it’s that Felicity said she wouldn’t leave, so she didn’t.

He doesn’t relax completely, but he’s calmer. Even so, blindfolded as he is, everything is enhanced but wrong. The smell of the candles is too strong, the silence too deep and the rope -

The smallest flutter of misplaced air behind him is the only warning he has before a shock of cold jolts up his spine from his lower back.

He gasps, arching his back. The ice is freezing against his overheated skin, melting on contact and trickling down to his waistband.

It’s gone in a moment, but then Felicity brushes against his shoulder and there’s freezing water dripping down his collarbone.

Biting back a cry, he breathes harshly through his nose. The ice slides across his chest, too cold and too wet, and an involuntary shiver runs through him. The freezing water soaks into the rope, stiffening the hemp, and turning the fibers harsh.

He doesn’t unclench his fists until the ice melts down to nothing. Somewhere, more ice clinks against glass, like Felicity is digging her hand into an ice bucket and then -

Silence again.

Oliver waits.

He doesn’t know where Felicity went or what direction she’s going to come from next. Any second, another ice cube will startle him, but he has no idea where. His fingers twitch, every inch of him straining and humming as he waits for the shock, suspended somewhere between anticipation and dread.

He starts to shake slightly, tremors running down his stomach and across his back. Why isn’t she just doing it? Why?

The mat shifts on his left and he immediately tenses, expecting the painful sting of cold somewhere along his back.

He’s completely unprepared instead for the sudden sensation of warm oil dripping gently into the palm of his hand.

He gasps, jerking in surprise.  

“Shhhh…” The whisper of Felicity’s breath against his ear sends a flush through him, heat prickling across his shoulder blades and down his chest to his groin. The oil drips through his fingers, sliding down his back, and he feels the sudden unmistakable stirrings of arousal again.

When she grips his hand and digs her thumbs into the palm, the oil sliding warm and wet between them, he groans. His head falls forward, chin resting on his chest.

“Shhhh,” she murmurs again, this time her breath soft against his shoulder. She massages his hand, rubbing the oil deep into the aching tissue.

He’d never realized how much his hands hurt.

More oil drips into his other hand, and when she switches to that one, he groans again, deeper, looser, his shoulders slumping in the bindings. His cock is half-hard, and he rolls his hips, just once, to feel the brush of cloth against his erection.

She works the muscles and the joints, digging in and alleviating the aches and pains of years of bow work, alternating between hands. He swallows past the hitch in his chest, even as his eyes sting behind the blindfold.

Everything slows down.

For a while, Oliver settles into the aching relief Felicity is giving him. His focus shifts and expands until it has diffused into a sluggish haze, with the only clear point of action in the entire room existing at the center of his palms. So when Felicity drags her thumbnails across his life lines without warning, he’s yanked back into himself.

He hisses a breath in between his teeth, going ramrod straight, only to have sensation explode through him when an ice cube is pressed to his abdomen.

He cries out, arching his back. His hands are still buzzing and relaxed, but his stomach muscles clench and release as the ice slides around his navel. When it dips in he tries to pull away, but the cold follows him.

A nail scrapes lightly down the back of his neck and he startles forward again, the ice trailing along the waistline of his pants. His cock has gone from half hard to fully erect despite the cold.

Somehow, he loses track of time. He has no idea how long he’s been on his knees. Everything has narrowed down to hot and cold, whispers and shivers buzzing along his skin.

He doesn’t know what to expect, or when to expect it. Hands dig into the muscles of his neck, releasing tension, but any second, a nail will scratch across his nipple, or an ice cube will be pressed into his side. A whisper in his ear sends a tremor down his back to his toes. He curls them, tensing for a chill that never comes, until it does - only it’s on his lips and in his mouth and the water’s like relief for three seconds before his neck burns with the cold of it.

His throat is tight, his chest tighter, and his erection so hard it’s almost painful. Every jerk of surprise rubs it against his pants, but the touch is too soft. It’s not enough, it’s nowhere near enough. Hands and feet tingling, arousal making his skin prickle, he feels every shiver in his cock along with everywhere else.

Thumbs brush across his cheeks and he feels them on his shoulder blades.

Cold water drips down his arm, but he feels it on his neck.

He doesn’t know what he’s feeling anymore. Doesn’t know… Where, what, when-

And everything just makes him harder. God, he just needs - he _needs_ -

Frustration, pain, arousal - something pricks at the corners of his eyes.

He needs - he needs… oh _please_ , _God, he needs_ -

“Please,” his voice cracks, the word broken and small. “Please…”

The sharp edge of cold drops away and fingers run through his hair, tilting his head back. His throat works as he swallows and he feels the burn pass through his chest and all the way down to his groin.

“Please…?” The voice comes from somewhere above him.

A whimper escapes him. He pulls at his bindings, desperate for friction, for release.

The hand trails down his face, cups his cheek, then drifts down his arm.

“Oliver.” Soft, warm against the shell of his ear. He groans. “Oliver, tell me what you need.”

He can’t. He needs…

“I need - _please_ …” He shakes his head, eyes burning, screwed shut behind the cloth.

“ _Tell me._ ” An urgent whisper.

He lets his head fall back and gasps in a breath, and in the sudden stillness that follows, buckles on the exhale.

“Touch me.”

A quick intake of breath next to his ear, hands on his face, and then fingers trail down his stomach to his waistband, dipping inside without preamble, and when those fingers close around his cock, Oliver cries out, the relief shuddering through him. Tears finally spill over, soaking into the blindfold, and he lets out a sob when a thumb brushes over his tip. One stroke, a second and he’s on fire, completely caught up in pleasure, in pain, and he can’t do anything to stop it, just give in -

Another stroke -

And he shatters.

The roaring in his ears is his own voice tearing out of him, leaving his throat ragged, as he expands, bends, breaks into a thousand pieces even as the ropes around his chest make sure he stays whole. He comes until he is nothing but Felicity’s arms around him, her hands in his hair, her voice in his ear. His last defense crumbles, and he lets out sob after shuddering sob into her shoulder.

~*~

Felicity holds him while he falls apart.

On instinct, she switches to autopilot, soothing him, removing his blindfold, murmuring words of comfort. But she’s shaking almost as badly as he is.

She’d hoped she could help him, make a difference, but this - she’d never thought -

Overwhelmed, she blinks towards the ceiling, tears of her own spilling over as she feels him breaking in her arms.

The scene doesn’t feel any less enormous now, any less terrifying than before they started. This is something that she can never take back.

But having brought Oliver Queen to his knees and broken him - now she can begin to set him to rights.

She lets him cry, holding him tightly, doing nothing to stop her own tears. Her heart aches for him, but she bites her lip to keep from making a sound other than the soft noises she uses to soothe him.

When he finally falls silent, lying limp in her arms, she gently maneuvers him back onto his knees, where he slumps, eyes red and dull - exhausted.

“Oliver, I’m going to give you some water and I need you to drink, okay?” she asks, quickly swiping beneath her eyes so he won’t see she’s been crying too.

A small nod.

He manages a few sips before the straw in the water bottle falls from his mouth.

“I’m going to untie you now,” she murmurs. Oliver doesn’t even seem to hear her.

Okay.

It’s slow going. Undoing the binding takes almost as long as knotting it had. She has to be careful and extremely gentle. She’d checked his arms and hands several times during the scene to make sure she hadn’t cut off circulation, but loosening them after being bound tightly for so long is still going to hurt. Oliver will most likely be incredibly sore in the morning.

The rope has left deep imprints on Oliver’s skin, and Felicity can’t help staring. The patterns are beautiful in their own way, the weave of the rope branded on his biceps, his chest. When Felicity loosens the cinch at the back, Oliver groans, slouching forward.

“Shhhh, shhh, slowly. It’s okay, it’s okay.” She holds onto him, keeping him upright. He’s so tired, but they have to do this right.

She works the muscles of his shoulders, digging her thumbs in to loosen the stiff joints, moving down to his wrists and hands. Regardless of how well she’d tied him, he still hadn’t moved the limbs in - God how long had it been? Felicity doesn’t even know.

When she glances at his face, his cheeks are wet again, eyes closed. There are tears on his lashes and Felicity bites her lip and keeps going until she’s done.

“Come on,” she says softly, getting her hands in under his arms.

She manages to get him standing with incredible difficulty, and Oliver sways on his feet. She has to tuck herself under his arm to keep him steady as she walks him down the hallway to her spacious bathroom.

Once he’s settled on the toilet seat, she gets the bath running, steam rising gently from the water.

The sound of the tub filling softens the silence with white noise, and when it’s nearly full, she crouches between Oliver’s  legs, one hand on each knee.

“Let’s get you in the bath.” She doesn’t expect much of a response, but Oliver gives her the tiniest nod, and she suddenly needs to touch him. She cups his face in her hands.

“Hey. You did so well. You were so good, Oliver. I’m going to take care of you, okay?”

He blinks, then his eyes fall shut and he tilts his head into her hand. He breathes in deeply and lets out a long sigh.

She gets him up again, gently tugging his sweatpants down and off his legs.

God, she’d never imagined the first time she saw Oliver Queen naked would be under these circumstances. In her head, it had always been sweeping passion and giving in and sudden fierce undressing and kissing, probably fucking against a wall…

Now all she’s thinking is that Oliver needs her.

She hums while bathing him. It’s not any specific tune, just wherever her voice takes her. The foam from the washcloth gathers on the surface of the water, clinging to the walls of the tub while she passes gently over his arms, hands, and chest.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs when she makes him sit up so she can wash his back, before settling him back down.

She thinks Oliver’s fallen asleep by the time she lifts his feet out of the tub to scrub across the soles and up his legs.

When she reaches the tops of his thighs, she hesitates for a second, but then dips her hand under the water to wipe gently at his groin.

A noise of quiet surprise draws Felicity’s attention. Oliver’s watching her, but he doesn’t say a word. And for the first time, Felicity allows herself to think about what they just did. What she did.

The evidence of Oliver’s climax has since been washed away, his cock gone soft, but she still remembers the feel of him hot and hard in her hand, straining, begging her for release. She hadn’t even thought twice - when he’d asked, she’d immediately complied. The feel of him pulsing in her grip, warm come spilling over her hand while he arched into her -

Felicity swallows, trying to keep her breathing steady.

She’s never even kissed him, they’re not even -

Oliver closes his eyes again, settling in the water, and Felicity’s chest constricts.

It’s submission.

It sends a thrill through her that gives her pause. She’s more than a little concerned at how powerful she felt then - how powerful she feels now. It felt more than good to break Oliver completely apart, and it scares her. She almost doesn’t know herself.

But no. Oliver is exhausted and now is not the time.

Felicity finishes washing him, being as delicate as she can, and pulls the stopper.

She wraps Oliver in a thick ivory towel that dwarfs her when she uses it - her favorite one - and leads him to her bedroom.

He’s practically falling over, and Felicity considers just letting him sleep naked, but she doesn’t want him to wake up feeling any more exposed than he already will, so while he sways on his feet, she grabs the pair of sweatpants she’d nabbed from the foundry the day before.

With some maneuvering, he ends up dressed, sitting hunched on the side of her bed, chin against his chest and eyes closed.

She wants him to drink some more water. She wants to ask him if he’s okay. She wants to know what he’s going to think of her tomorrow.

But he is so tired, so very tired. He has never in all the time she’s known him looked as spent as he does right now. There’s nothing left for him to give her, not tonight.

So she guides him down until he’s laying on her pillow, and pulls the covers up and over him. He’s asleep in seconds, she can hear it in his breathing.

She’d love a shower, but there is no way she’s leaving Oliver alone, so she strips out of her clothes and pulls on a ratty t-shirt instead, climbing in next to him.

He doesn’t stir when she reaches out to brush her thumb along his cheekbone.

Every step she’s taken up until this point has been calculated, mapped out, planned. Now, for the first time in weeks, Felicity finds she has no idea what happens next. She bites her lip, swallowing past her fears and uncertainty.

Her jaw cracks as she yawns, surprised by how tired she feels.

It’s done. Whatever the morning brings, she’ll face it with Oliver.

Felicity falls asleep, one hand on Oliver’s face and one over his heart.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started writing this chapter I wasn't expecting it to end up being as difficult as it was. But every word of it was battle to get out, to perfect, to solidify. As I wrote Oliver and Felicity's scene it became more than just Oliver's struggle to let go and fall, but my own as well.  
> This fic continues to parallel a scene for me, and I'm not sure what role I'm playing exactly - Domme, or sub - sometimes both, but the incredible sense of release and freedom I feel to be presenting it to you all now is earth-shattering.  
> I don't think I've ever felt prouder of a piece of writing in my life.  
> I could not have done it without the following people to hold my hand and keep me steady and safe along the way:  
> Ash, Chi, Abbie, Effie and Kris. Thank you. You all mean more to me than you will ever know.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [All of Me (wants All of You)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5252171) by [mybrotherharry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybrotherharry/pseuds/mybrotherharry)




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